


House Arrest

by Bidawee



Series: we took care of marner (mobsters AU) [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Mob, Background Het, Captivity, Coercion, Dark, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Flashbacks, Frottage, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Past Relationship(s), Possessive Behavior, Stockholm Syndrome, Tattoos, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-19 13:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 54,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14238714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: First there was the abduction, which is the only thing he was certain had occurred. Then there was the degrading sense of guilt pressing him down, the removal from society, the presence of time, and in doing all those terrible things, Auston had finally broken his will. And once he’d done that, Mitch could adopt the belief that love was how he would eventually survive. Because he wanted to live.





	1. December 8, 2025

**Author's Note:**

> [This is a work of fiction and does not accurately depict the people listed inside. Please do not share this on social media nor harass people about it, whether they are in the story or not. Please know that I do not condone any non-consensual advances, abusive relationships, or violence and that the people in this are CHARACTERS.  
> This is set in an alternate universe separate from reality and has no bearing on current day RPF.  
> EDIT: it's been bothering me for some time; i've swapped out the names of the girlfriend characters. I should have done it a long time ago and I apologize.]
> 
> I implore you to please read the warnings before you continue because there’s a lot of dark content and I don’t want anyone to be squicked out. I try my best to respond to all comments so please don’t be afraid to share feedback or opinions so far. Ratings and tags are set to change as the story progresses. 
> 
> (Also, just to clear any confusion this story follows a present > flashback structure. Every chapter contains one of each at the beginning and end. We'll get the hang of it by chapter two, I'm sure.)

**December 8, 2025**

Biting the nails had always been a nervous habit of Mitch’s.

It was an unconscious response to stress, and when he was young it happened so often that it eventually became a learned behaviour. It wasn’t until he got involved with the local gangs that he worked to cut back on the habit, even going as far as wearing gloves when he was out on the town.

For the first time in eight years, he had bitten his nail down to the quick. When that was gone, he used his teeth to tear at the skin of his finger until it bled, gnawing down until the physical pain forced him to stop. It felt like it happened too quickly, because when the flash of pain behind his eyelids slunk out of sight, he found himself watching the flurries outside the window to distract himself again.

The penthouse was elaborate and completely unaffordable to anyone not raking in thousands a week. Compact in all the right places and decorated along the arches, it was achingly beautiful and he felt unqualified just being there. Not that the architecture helped either. The master bedroom was furnished but constructed so big that it swallowed the windows and blinds up, with no rug capable of completely shielding the floorboards.

Auston had shown him around earlier in the afternoon, all two rooms he was allowed in. The remaining few were locked upon Auston coming into contact with them, followed by a cryptic look that also functioned as a warning. Luckily for Mitch, the kitchen, common room, and dining room were interconnected and open, circumventing the restrictions placed on only being allowed in the master bedroom and its ensuite.

He was sore with the idea of being in the same room with Auston, let alone sharing a bed, but there were no other living arrangements present (none that he was allowed to access, at least). It was clear Auston expected nothing less than what he’d been given in the relationship, including the intimacy Mitch had tried to abstain from in his attempts to distance himself from a life of crime.

Mitch had needed to sit down soon after; couldn’t suck in enough air to sufficiently satisfy his lungs. His whole world perspective was shifting and he could remember gagging into his bent knees, trying to stifle the urge to vomit his insides out on the immaculate floor. Usually, such discomfort would last a couple minutes, maybe half an hour at worst, but he lingered for four horrible hours on the precipice of self-destruction.

He’d found solace pressed up against one of the common room’s many picture windows, sapping the blistering cold from the glass with his right cheek. On any given day it would be uncomfortable, but in the present moment there was no better analogy for the cold tendrils of fear smothering any light at the end of the tunnel.

An impulsive thought clouded his judgement, and he found himself resting his hands on the glass, pressing in to see if it would open. To his surprise, the windows did fold after he flipped the lock on the bottom ledge. Hope flared in his chest, even if it was nestled in dark, melancholy brambles. But when he pushed too far they locked into place, leaving the cold air to be sucked inside because of the windchill. He could barely fit a hand in the space, let along cram his body through the mouse-sized hole and weasel his way out of the problem.

“They don’t move more than a few centimetres,” Auston said, too close for comfort. “And are made of double-paned glass. You can’t break them.”

Mitch turned around to see Auston lingering in the common room, only one side of his face backlit by the dimming kitchen lights. The other half was shrouded in a green hue from the buildings outside, contoured with a brighter lime colour only around his nose, cheekbones, and eyebrows. Dust particles danced around them in a flurry.

“Why would you-“

“Not me. The landlord. To prevent people from jumping.” He explained, slowly, like he was talking to a child.

Mitch had a vision of falling, down, down, until the skimpy roads became gray prairies and the cement bent his bones. He felt weak.

“Don’t stare out for too long though. You have a concussion, remember? You’re going to be sensitive to light for a bit. Last thing you want is to make it worse.” Auston marched up to him and Mitch flinched in expectation of a fight. Auston ignored it, and pulled the window shut, locking it, and shucking the blinds down until the light inside the room dissipated.

Mitch hands unconsciously reached up to rub at his head, skull aching from inside his layer of skin cradling it. It felt like if he pressed too hard it would mould into his handprint and split apart, and that only exacerbated the problem. While in the midst of his contemplation, Auston had begun rearranging an array of white papers on one of the ottomans.

“Are you hungry?” Auston’s voice was low, barely audible over the sounds of paper fluttering all around them.

Mitch couldn’t find the strength to respond, still massaging his throat as visions of death played cinematically behind his eyelids.

“What do you want me to make for dinner?”

“I’m not hungry,” Mitch said, the sound hollow to his own ears. The declaration left his throat like a rasp.

“Are you sure? I won’t make anything later.”

Numbness ate away at the feeling of Mitch’s fingertips, but he couldn’t move. Auston’s eyes were piercing him from the head down, nailing his feet to the ground.

“Last chance,” Auston said.

Exhaustion was pulling at the soles of his feet, creasing around his eyes until it felt labouring just to have them open. Mitch closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look anymore. Auston sighed, patience wearing thin.

“Fine. You can wash up and go to bed then.”

Mitch almost relented. Keyword: _almost_. A bed sounded nice. But the last thing he wanted to do was follow Auston’s orders. Especially when he was being herded around like sheep.

He wanted to go home, call his brother and apologize for yelling at him, make sure his girlfriend didn’t forget to grab the gluten-free popcorn for their movie night tomorrow. Instead, he was rubbing his clammy palms up and down his thighs as he contemplated how long he’d survive if it was possible for him to jump out of the window and fall to the streets below. There was probably a bustle of people underneath them on their balconies and patios minding their own business. Maybe he could flag them down, or survive the fall and dangle until a kind samaritan pulled him up from his imminent doom.

He’d never felt so separate from them. They may as well have existed in a different country.

It wasn’t like their presence reassured him though. Auston had made sure to gloat their neighbours were specifically chosen to be close to him. That squashed any hopes of breaking the glass door leading to Auston’s patio and screaming at them from above to call the police.

It evoked a sense of rage inside of him. He had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and a thimble glaze of invincibility was frosted over his decision making.

“No,” he said, glaring up at Auston through his eyelashes, “I won’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t order me around. I want to go home.”

Auston lurked on the other side of the coffee table, which was the only force currently separating them. A childish urge inside of Mitch wanted to grab the stack of papers and throw them at Auston just to prove his point.

“This is your home now. Go to bed or I’ll make you,” Auston said, stepping forward until his knees were pressed to the side of the table. He felt close enough to reach over and wring Mitch’s throat. As a precaution, Mitch took a step back.

“I want to go home,” he repeated. “Let me go home.”

Auston raked a hand through his floppy hair, rolling his eyes in dismissal.

“Mitch, I just told you-”

“No! Let me go home!”

Auston didn’t try to answer him that time, just stared, trying to unnerve Mitch no doubt. It sent Mitch barrelling towards his breaking point, adrenaline spiking.

He had no idea which one of them moved first, but a single blink later and both of them were scrambling towards the elevator doors.

Mitch had the speed advantage, not weighed down by the combined efforts of a bulky frame and business attire. He zipped around the furniture and struggled to find footing with how polished the floors were as he made a last-minute dash for the exit. He didn't dared run before--Auston had been stalking him like some apex predator around the apartment--but he was out of options.

He could see the alcove where the elevator doors were situated pull into his line of sight, and if possible he ran faster. He slipped, almost slid as he reached the button compound and pressed the down arrow. He could almost feel Auston’s breath on the back of his neck, snarling, teeth ready to sink in and pull him back.

It didn’t light up, directing him to a slot above that was blinking. Mockingly, his recollection reminded him of Auston using a card to rise to the penthouse suite and then tucking it into his wallet as they reached the top. He needed the _fucking_ key card.

“Help!” he screamed, banging on the doors, praying they would open. “Can anyone fucking hear me?” His fists burned, sliding down the stainless steel as his chest stayed racked with fear. In the distance, he could feel Auston’s footsteps reverberate through the floor. In a last minute scramble, Mitch arched away, backing up against the opposing wall as Auston advanced on him.

“What the fuck, you fucking monster! Stay away!” He kicked when Auston came within arm’s reach.

Auston merely grabbed a leg and yanked, pulling Mitch away from the wall. The act caused Mitch’s head to smack against the ground, momentarily stunning him. When he opened his eyes again, in the midst of a long drawn-out groan, a blurry mess of shapes was tainting his vision.

“Mitch, fuck! Are you okay?” Mitch was groaning, but he could see Auston running up to him with concern laced in his expression before he even opened his eyes. Foreign hands were trying to prop him up.

He got lucky, Auston changed his position and lowered himself down just enough for Mitch’s knee to align with his crotch. Mitch wound it up, pulling his leg back and then pushing forward with all the force he could muster, biting down on Auston outstretched hand until a metallic taste flooded his mouth for good measure. Auston practically disintegrated at his feet, dropping Mitch and falling to the floor simultaneously. The _bang_ that followed after both did nothing to reassure Mitch about a potential brain injury, and his speculations were met with a raging headache blooming behind his forehead. It felt like the skin was splintering, little pulses of energy sending his vision into a hazy collection of purples and whites.

Auston was curled up on the floor a few inches away, breathing heavily. Mitch was able to get up before him thanks to the reaction time, though the soundtrack playing between his ears still consisted of an amalgam of a whine and television static. He briefly considered walking over to Auston and stomping down to garner the few precious seconds, but the mere thought of hearing the man cry out in pain made Mitch sick to his stomach.

Compassion did nothing to help his predicament though. He limped down the hall, knees and cheeks stinging from the rough treatment as he looked for something to use. The kitchen presented the opportunity to swipe a knife, but it meant looking through cabinets to find the right one, which could eat up an opportunity.

It wasn’t like he had many options, Auston’s grunts were becoming more oriented. Mitch began to throw open drawers and cabinets, most of which were empty, trying to find something to defend himself with. Under the sink there were cleaners and a garbage can, the fridge was partially stocked, and there was a glass cupboard where he could see wine glasses admiring their own reflection. He wasn’t thinking straight--who opened a fridge looking for an item to defend themselves with--but his mind was functioning like a rabbit’s would, quite literally jumping from one idea to the next.

When Auston turned the corner, Mitch had two glasses in his hands.

“Don’t,” Auston warned. “Don’t you dare. Mitch, you’ll fucking regret it.” Mitch lifted one glass above his head, showing off the weapons at his disposal. Auston ran around the island and Mitch followed through on the threat, launching both glasses at Auston with full force. Auston sidestepped the first one and took the second impact partially to the arm, the sound of glass shattering behind him. When Auston looked up, the look in his eyes was livid.

“You fucker,” was all he said, but the intent was obvious. Mitch resorted to throwing random clutter on the counters. Running around and out of the kitchen, Mitch tripped over the plush kitchen chairs, jamming his knee into the dining table as he scrambled to find projectiles to throw. Auston was on him in a second, but Mitch saved himself by picking up the pepper shaker and managing a hit square in the middle of Auston’s chest. The _oof_ that followed did nothing to dispel the tension elicited by seeing nothing but white walls boxing him in.

A hand latched itself around his ankle and pulled, taking Mitch screaming with it.

Auston managed to wrangle both of them into the hallway, though by then Mitch had recovered enough to flip onto his stomach and grab at any furniture he came across. He lunged for chairs, wall corners, anything to delay Auston with. Eventually, Auston just took both legs and pulled him across the common room rug, fast enough for the friction to give Mitch rug burn on his cheek.

The last leg of the fight was the worst. Auston soon grew tired of trying to control an increasingly frantic Mitch and gave up on trying to drag him to the bedroom. Instead, he blanketed him from above with his own body and dug his nails into Mitch’s waist without warning. The contact sent Mitch spastically lashing out in every direction. He kicked Auston in the shin as hard as he could and crawled to the living room on his hands and knees.

He’d caged himself in. There was nowhere else to go but try and evade Auston. The only other option was the windows, but he couldn’t fit a shoulder in there, let alone an entire body. He whined, scooted back on his knees and fumbled, running to the farthest corner. There were electrical wires and ports connecting some of the electronics to the outlets and by all accounts, it was dangerous to be walking barefoot there. But it wasn’t like he had a choice. It wasn’t like Auston would hand him a pair of socks and send him on his merry way.

For once, his size was to his advantage. He squeezed in between the wall and the love-seat, pushing himself back and scrunching himself into a ball. He tried to manoeuvre the couch so that it barricaded him in the corner, but he wasn’t quick enough to master Auston’s pace.

If he thought Auston was terrifying before it was _nothing_ compared to the fear of being backed into a corner, watching a six-foot-tall giant tower over you with vengeance in his eyes. Mitch was uttering a parade of _no’s_ under his breath, but it did nothing to deter the man. Auston pushed the couch to the side, freeing up enough space so that he could reach in and try to pull Mitch out by his legs.

Mitch thrashed, grabbing ahold of the couch for dear life. In his head, he played all the outcomes of failure: being beaten into the ground, murdered and thrown into the lake, god--fucked into Auston’s bed against his pleas to stop. It was all too real of a possibility, and he was choking on his saliva before Auston had even managed to hold him down.

With strength on his side it was a one-sided fight, with Auston clearly having the upper hand. There was no debris beneath the couch to use and Mitch’s head was killing him. Even conjuring up images of his demise used up an already depleted energy supply he didn’t remember having. It hurt, and he briefly wondered if this was the concussion Auston was talking about. The internal power surge was the final push Auston needed to hold Mitch down and clamber back to his feet with his prize draped over his back, withering away under the intense mental beatings dished out from his headache’s candy coloured flashes.

Mitch at least had enough self-awareness to know he was being lifted up, and it didn’t quell any of his anxieties. His hands were trapped between both of their chests, one of Auston’s arms holding him there and the other clutching him by the bottom of his thighs to keep him suspended.

Auston was holding him without any regard for Mitch’s comfort, unrelenting even as Mitch screamed into his neck and bit down at whatever skin was presented to him. In the back of Mitch’s mind he was shocked at the complete animality of his desperation, but the need for survival overpowered any personal gratification. With how tense his body was he felt ready to tear the elevator doors open with his bare hands should he be given the opportunity.

They finally reached the bedroom, Auston stumbling twice along the way when Mitch unexpectedly pounded him with various limbs. Mitch could taste the sweat from biting down into Auston’s neck and shook in disgust, tearing his jagged nails through Auston’s arms where the sleeves were rolled up. Nothing stopped Auston for more than a couple seconds.

Mitch was quite literally thrown at the bed, face-first. The shock made his teeth bite down on the inside of his cheek, the taste of blood swamping his mouth. His hands flew up to cradle his chin, moaning at the stinging sensation that remained. It gave Auston enough time to properly close and lock the door, still completely ignoring anything that came out of Mitch’s mouth, whether it be insult or plea.

Without wasting a second Mitch leapt off the bed and made a run for the door, yanking at the knob and scowling when it didn’t give way. He pulled back as hard as he could, twisted it from every angle, but it held steadfast to the lock’s decree.

“Open this fucking door right now Auston!” Mitch screamed, banging on the wood with his fists. It vibrated with the force of his blows, the sound carrying throughout the apartment.

“I’ll fucking kill you! I’d rather die than be with you! You hear me? I’d rather die!” Near frothing at the mouth, Mitch’s fast-coming breaths devolved into quiet sobs, then full-blown crying. He sank against the door and covered his face with his hands, unwilling to see himself in such a state. His cheek and chin were both red hot with pain, muscles aching from the struggle. His heart though, was the worst of all. It felt swollen, like working too hard would rupture it. His whole chest was experiencing a cramp that probably could’ve been some serious problem with his arteries or blood vessels in disguise by how painful it was.

At some point, he moved from the door to the bed, reclining back to give his head a break. He scarcely heard the door open.

Auston eventually returned with a small number of unused zip ties in one hand and a chair in the other. The threat went unspoken and Mitch caught himself eyeing the hazard warily, trying to predict its trajectory so that he could dodge and make a run for the elevators again. What he did when he got there he had no idea, but it was a step by step process he had to work through.

Auston inched closer when neither of them moved, taking the chair with him. Mustering what little energy he still had left, Mitch dashed around and made a frantic jab for the chair. He was thinking if he got a hold of it he could probably smash it over Auston and knock him out. Brutal, but it wasn’t like he had many options. Then maybe he could find Auston’s wallet or his phone and make a desperate cry for help.

Auston was clearly expecting retaliation though, because he went after Mitch from the side, grabbing onto Mitch’s shoulder and twisting it painfully. The next kick came to the backs of Mitch’s knees, forcing him to the ground. Auston only needed to push him slightly to send him sprawling out on the ground.

Forced belly down, Auston’s knee pressed down on Mitch’s back until his legs folded out from underneath him. That’s when he felt the two hands snake up his torso, grabbing just beneath Mitch’s collarbone and securing themselves as their owner climbed on top. It felt like a belt was looped around Mitch’s lungs, expelling the oxygen nestled inside.

One of Auston’s hands grabbed his wrist, rolling it underneath Mitch so that he was trapped by the weight of his own body. Without hesitation, Auston rolled over to the side, the change in positioning bringing Mitch’s shoulder down to the hardwood as his body was manipulated like origami. Auston’s other hand was planted firmly on his hip, keeping him from rolling out of his predicament. Mitch could feel Auston’s elbow on the top of his shoulder, a warning.

He was helpless to stop Auston from pulling his palm face-up, over his back. Shoulders still pinned, he choked out a gasp as Auston slid back on top of him, his chest keeping Mitch’s hand firmly pressed into his back. From there, it was no difficulty grabbing Mitch’s other flailing hand and bringing it to the centre of the back as well. It took little time at all for Auston to secure him from there out, silencing any hope of escape as he sat down on the hands and began shucking something out of his back pocket.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mitch could see Auston feeding the longer half of a zip tie through another until it clicked into place. He repeated the motion with the open end until he had a complete circuit, the plastic leering at Mitch from above. Out of options, Mitch resorted to bucking up in an attempt to dislodge his attacker. Without leverage though, all he managed to accomplish was unbalancing Auston for a split second as he bound the two makeshift handcuffs together, still without any indication of stopping.

He was on the verge of crying when his hands were forced through the loops, the plastic tugged without mercy until his wrists screamed in pain. Mitch flopped around like a fish, ultimately aware that he was at his wit’s end but unwilling to give up just yet. When the tears came, they came in waves, the breath he sucked in unable to pacify the emotion so nakedly displayed on his face.

“I’m sorry Mitchy,” Auston said, mouth close to Mitch’s ear. “But you left me with no choice.” It wasn’t structured as a taunt, but it may as well had been. Either way, it forced more unwilling sobs out from the base of Mitch’s chest. He couldn’t afford the pleasure of absorbing Auston’s little chirps and shushes, the kind sweep of Auston’s hands as they tried to calm down the frightened man beneath him.

Eventually, Auston stood up, leaving Mitch a quivering mess on the floor.

“Come on, up you go.” The hands tried to reach around and heave Mitch up by his armpits but Mitch refused. He wasn’t going anywhere like this; Auston would have to drag him.

“Fine,” Auston huffed. “Have it your own way.” Mitch was left to his own devices as he could hear Auston rummaging through drawers. He could look if he tried hard enough, but his neck was already in terrible pain and he didn’t want to make the effects worse by being nosy. He tried looking for a projectile, anything usable on the bedroom floor. But not only was the bedroom clean, Mitch only had his mouth to grab things with.

When Auston returned, he sat back on Mitch to press him into the ground. The suffocating feeling returned, seizing Mitch by the throat and sucking the air out of him. Amidst his panic, he noticed something fall over his eyes. It was steadily blocking out his vision, and it fucking terrified him.

“No!” Mitch screamed, twisting around. “Don’t fucking--Auston! Someone help!” His voice was rough. It felt like stones cutting into his tonsils with every gasp.

“No one can hear you,” Auston replied, bringing the cloth back so that Mitch’s vision cut to black. The soft cashmere fabric was no relief, neither was the smell of the cologne Auston wore pressing so strongly against his nose. “And if they did, they wouldn’t care.” Mitch was racked with sobs once more. A knot was secured behind his head, pulled taut so that the strip of whatever it was bound his ears too, making it harder to hear through the scratching noises coming from the blood coursing inside of his head.

Vision blacked out, Mitch was helpless but to let Auston pinch and pull, helping Mitch stand up and holding him close so that he wouldn’t fall. Auston had to lead him; he’d fall and hit his head otherwise. Attuned to the sensations taking him prisoner, Mitch could feel the carpet give out to hardwood, then tile. It was cold, wherever he was. The chair was screeching beside him. He wondered if he would end up on the other side of its brutality, smashed in the head until he was killed.

The chair’s incessant screeching stopped, he could hear it being set flat on the floor. He wanted to kick or run, but the possibility of him not running into a wall and getting caught in the process was slim to none. Bile inching up his throat, he gave into the will of Auston’s hands forcing him down onto the chair’s seat. Subsequently, he could feel his own bound hands stretched and pulled, the sound of the zip ties’ teeth heard as they were secured to the chair behind him.

He thought his legs would be left alone; Auston made no move to fiddle with them earlier. Yet, he couldn’t even get a break in that department. Auston’s blocky hands were moving his legs aside, forcing a gap to open as Mitch spread his body open. Diffident, he couldn’t ignore the voice in his head warning him that this was some twisted sex act. That he was going to be held prisoner, in servitude, like what he’d accused Auston of earlier.

He had no idea where the courage came from, but one second he was sitting back, the next his foot was making contact with what he presumed was Auston’s nose. It was hard to tell just by touch alone. The smack that followed both energized and terrified him. Auston, on the other hand, didn’t react beyond a grunt and a consequent yank that burned Mitch up to his thigh. It felt like he was being pulled thin; that the socket would give and his leg would break in two. When he whimpered, Auston stopped and resumed trying Mitch to the chair legs, whistling when his work was complete.

It felt like Mitch was open in some display case. Like he was a prize to be ogled at. It disgusted him, but there was no vinegar left to voice. There was no swear or insult that could deter Auston. It was pointless. The realization was more crushing than any blow Auston had administered since. Knowing he was at odds, locked away from civilization and potentially sitting in his own grave was heartbreaking. What scared him more was the tinge of relief in the back of his mind.

Auston said no more. He left immediately after, only pausing to turn the fan on. Mitch had guessed the bathroom was probably the location he was taken to, but he couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. The door slammed behind Auston and signalled the beginning of a tedious countdown to something interesting happening.

It was miserable, sitting back, waiting for something to change. It was difficult to concentrate on any sound in particular; with his eyes unavailable even the sounds of the apartment settling or the car horns heard faintly in the distance was considered important to his brain. With nothing physical to engage his attention to, he resorted to tapping his bare foot against the ridges of the tile, as far as his restraints allowed. The little cracks were something different from the smooth nothingness that continued in every direction.

He swore several times he could hear voices. A door close by was being opened and shut periodically. They were so distorted by the fan though that it was nearly impossible to decipher who was saying what. Mitch couldn’t even be sure Auston was still in the apartment, which was a new level of terror. Bound, blindfolded, and left to the cruel devices of whatever heathens had access to the rooms down the hallway.

Time stretched long. It got harder and harder to keep his eyes open. He was exhausted from so much running and fighting in a single day. Eventually, he let himself succumb to the thought of just sleeping off the energy drain. There was enough slack in his handcuffs to let him rock back and forth to try and speed up the process. At least if he was asleep he wasn’t actively subjected to the horrors of his imprisonment--it was the only excuse he could use to begin gradually dozing of with. He couldn’t say for sure when or how long, but at that moment there was a semblance of peace that made existing the slightest bit more bearable.

Auston came back to the bathroom in what felt like hours later, and by then Mitch was groggy. The fight had been bled dry. Mitch was left hunched over in his chair, resisting the urge to punch Auston right in his teeth the second he got close. That’s what he’d wanted, attention. Like a bully pulling pigtails in the playground, except to a much more severe degree. Fuck him. Auston could make him stay here, but he couldn't force him to live. Auston could dictate where he could go and who he could talk to but Mitch would get the last laugh.

He’d starve himself. Yeah. He’d starve himself within these four walls, and when the police found his body he hoped they would never let Auston see the sun again.

“Sorry that took so long baby, I just had to move a few things around. I hope you’re not too uncomfortable,” Auston said. There was a sound of something snapping the plastic, and Mitch could lean forward and bring his arms with him without disturbing the chair’s placement.

“In the future, if you have a problem use your manners. I’m happy to make accommodations, but only if you’re nice.” Insults flared in the root of Mitch’s lungs, ready to pounce on his tongue and escape. He held on by a thread, trying to protest using his silence.

Auston cleared his throat. “Well, it’s late. We should get to bed. I left some sweatpants and boxers for you on the comforter and--”

“I’m not wearing them,” Mitch said, almost without realizing. The blindfold gave way and he squinted as his eyes took in the light of the bathroom. Auston was behind him, so he couldn’t see whatever stupid expression had grown across his face. It could be sympathy, mockery, or worse, that squishy, lovey-dovey look. Once upon a time, Mitch might have revelled in it but here, it was disgusting. It didn’t belong, just like him.

“That’s fine,” Auston replied, almost immediately. “You won’t get any new clothes though. If I let you go, do you promise not to fight?” There was a snip following his words. That meant he had some kind of cutter in his hands, strong enough to penetrate the thicker plastic of the zip ties. It was just a flash of an idea though, nothing palpable he could use. Auston was probably one step ahead of him anyways.

“I promise,” Mitch said, after a moment of consideration.

“Thank you,” Auston replied, a smile leaking into his voice. “Be warned that if you don’t, you’re going back in the chair for the night. I know it’s not ideal, but I need to make sure I can trust you.”

Mitch’s back already hurt plenty. It wasn’t worth it. He nodded along and was rewarded with the pliers removing the leg binds followed by the hands. He was able to stand up, slowly, as cautioned by Auston, and stretch his aching joints. The sole bathroom window showed that it remained dark outside. The nightlife was bustling just outside the apartment, as it always did in Toronto.

There were no more words exchanged. He knew Auston had more zip ties tucked away somewhere, so he didn’t bother. The surprise ended up being returning to the room and seeing it had undergone a whole makeover. The clothes on the dressers were returned to the drawers, the hamper cleaned out, and most of the clutter stashed away where it couldn’t be reached.

(As he’d soon find out, it wasn’t just the bedroom that was emptied. The overhead cabinets and fridge in the kitchen were securely locked and the television remote in the living room was nowhere to be seen. There was a ghost of living arrangements in the house that had been scalped out during the time he’d been held hostage.)

As promised, there was a set of clothes on the bed. Too big and baggy to fit Mitch which meant one thing, and he didn't want to parse Auston’s motivation behind it and waste the energy. Instead of walking towards the bed, Mitch took a detour and began marvelling at the picture windows that once multiplied themselves across the walls, providing a stellar view to the outside world and more importantly, Lake Ontario. Now, the blinds had been pulled down to the floor, leaving only a sliver of light to work its way through. As a result, the entire room was fumigated in a murky air with not even a single end table light turned on to combat it. The eerie ambience was only fitting in regards to his living conditions at that moment.

“Last chance to take the clothes Mitch. I won’t give you anything else until the morning,” Auston said from behind him. “If you need help getting dressed I can-”

“I don’t need help getting dressed,” Mitch snapped, voice hoarse. He turned to look Auston in the eye, no longer intimidated by the size difference. “I don’t need any of your help. I just want to sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” Auston said, and retrieved the clothes from the bed. He stood around the drawers for a while, carefully folding them and placing them on top of contents inside. Auston worked without any urgency, almost walking around the problem of there being an actual prisoner in his quarters. Mitch found himself looking at the door, wondering if it had been unlocked since the time of the last attack.

Auston saw him looking, followed his gaze and sighed. “You’re not allowed out of the room until I leave. That’s the price of fighting back darling.” The nickname left a bad taste in Mitch’s mouth.

“So what am I supposed to do? Play nice?” he taunted, pushing out his swollen bottom lip in an effort to look younger, more defenceless like the damsels in distress on old television. It poked at Auston’s objective with an ill-intent finger and was probably the only thing Mitch could do to fight back given his current situation.

“That’s exactly what I want you to do. I realize I’m giving you a lot of opportunity sleeping in the same bed so I need you to be on your best behaviour,” Auston said. It was belittling.

Mitch felt his ears heat up. “What do you think I’m going to do?” It came out weak, like he’d pulled back at the last second.

“I know you’re not going to do anything, because if you do I’m going to have to punish you.” The connotations brought with the word made Mitch shiver, but he stood his ground.

“You won’t do shit to me.” He hoped if he said it with enough vigour it would make it true.

Auston just smiled. “Doesn’t mean I won’t do shit to anyone else. If you want to go after me, fine. But anything you do to me is just going to be carried down to your friends and family. You wouldn’t want to hurt them, would you?”

He thought of Chris, of Olivia. Of the few friends of his still living in London. None of them knew what kind of shit Auston was capable of. Bone-smashing, crippling, blatant manipulation kind of shit. Mitch went as still as a statue.

“No,” he admitted, as soft as a whisper. Auston’s face softened up and he tried to comfort Mitch, but when he stepped forward Mitch countered with a step back, keeping their distance.

He just wanted this night to be over. He wanted to wake up and be back at his apartment, covered head to toe in a cold sweat but otherwise okay.

It was hopeless, but Mitch maintained what little control of the situation he still had to park himself beside the bed. He didn’t sit on it though. He made a show of dropping to the hardwood and curling up there, aligning his face with the single row of light. Auston scoffed from behind.

“What are you doing? Didn’t you hear what I just said?” Mitch turned his head to glare at him from his spot on the floor.  
  
“You said I’d be punished for attacking you. I’m not attacking you. You said nothing about not sleeping on the floor.” He insinuated his point but rearranging himself to become more comfortable. Expecting Auston to retaliate, he brought his shoulders up, freezing in place.

But Auston said nothing. Did nothing. He let Mitch be and tugged at the covers. Mitch could hear them being pulled back, followed by the mattress springs sighing with the added weight. It sounded comfortable; felt comfortable the split second he’d been launched onto it. He felt the slightest bit guilty, wanting that pleasure. But pleasure came with _Auston_.

He could do without a bed until the police found him. Or not. No, they _would_. Olivia would report him as a missing person and they’d open a case. She knew he was a gang member, that there’d be ghosts from his past that’d spring out every now and again. Hopefully, they’d assign someone that wasn’t paid off and would put in a genuine effort. They’d trace his call back to Naz and it would leach out from there.

He just hoped he’d still be untouched and sane when they made their way up. He hoped he’d be able to scrub his mind clean of Auston forever. Thinking of that future was the only way he could convince himself to sleep, dreaming of waking up to police sirens and doors breaking open.

 

**March 4, 2025**

The air was polluted with sounds of gunfire and bawling, painted grunts the orchestra to this god-awful soundtrack that played as the instrumental to Mitch’s entire life.

He was currently crouched behind a rusted old car having its windshield smashed to pieces with bullets. Chaos was erupting all around them, the few pedestrian witnesses screaming their heads off and no doubt calling the police to alert them to their location. The white static was building behind Mitch’s ears, thighs aching with how hard there were trembling amidst the struggle to keep up upright. Just breathing was taking a toll on his chest. It felt like someone was sitting on it, pressing all the air out of him until he was but a hollow shell.

Unarmed, on the defence, he was forced to wait out the violence. He heard men his age, even younger, fall writhing to the ground, probably crammed with a round of fire embedded in their chest. They were pawns in a much bigger game, the children holding the rifles and marching to fight the battles of their gang leaders.

If their men eventually pushed the Otters back, he wouldn’t have known. He remained rooted where he thought he would be safe, behind the car probably blown through with the enemy’s bombardment. It wasn’t until Chucky and a handful of others dragged him up that he realized the gunfire had quieted enough to compete with the crunch of snow underneath their boots for volume.

It was a scene of carnage when he finally looked over the car roof. The once pure snow was stained crimson, dappled with remains from cut arteries and veins. Three bodies were present, one living opponent hounded by the functioning Knights as they worked to restrain him to the pavement. The pulsing wound in the captive’s shoulder should have incapacitated him, but the adrenaline made it so that he was snarling like a feral animal in his efforts to escape his enemy’s clutches.

For a second, his head was raised and Mitch got a good look at the fear cloistered inside. A casual look would tell you he was pissed, but for that split nanosecond Mitch saw the sweat and dirt melt from his features and reveal a kindred spirit underneath: a boy, likely a decade younger than he was.

Then and there eliminated was the idea of good and bad, black and white. At that moment, all Mitch could feel for the poor soul was pity; pity for getting tangled up in a war much bigger than he was. Too naive to place the danger until it had slit his throat.

That could’ve been _him_.

“Marns,” a voice beside him gruffed, pressing something into his hand. “Let's see what you're made of.” He snapped back into awareness at the unforgiving cold texture of what he’d been given. It cut through his makeshift gloves and penetrated the security of his being. He found himself looking at a gun, already stained sanguine with the hellish claw rakes of an unsuspecting victim.

“What?” he said, voice pitched high and trembling without disguise.

He was a weapons trafficker, not a killer. Those were on completely opposite ends of the criminal spectrum. He sold the weapons that did the killing but he himself didn’t know the first thing about guns besides showing them off and maintaining them between shipments. He never wanted to; had been wrangled into the syndicate through an elaborate game of keep-away and soldier swaps. He wasn’t about to start today.

“Shoot him,” the associate commanded. He shoved Mitch towards the boy, an actual boy, a child practically, who was pummeling the snow with his bare hands, pulling the Knights tasked with holding him down forward. The activity made the blood from his cheek wound bloat out.

“I can’t,” Mitch replied. It felt like all sound around him stopped on a dime. His declaration was especially impactful because at that moment the nulling effect of the boy being kicked to the ground augmented his act of defiance.

“No, you can, just,” the hands, bruised and battered, went to take Mitch’s own, but Mitch was faster. He jerked his hand away, taking the gun with him. “Mitch,” he warned. "You need to stop backing out of this. It's time. Do this and ah'll put a good word in to the captain for you,"

“Ask me to do anything else. This is a kid. I can’t kill a kid.” A circle of groans met his protest. It all slurred into an audience jeer, a sea of disappointment that was pulling him under the surface. He dawdled in place, trying to wait out the cold panic seeping into his fingers and failing miserably. All he wanted to do was go home, beat his fists into his cotton-stuffed pillow, and doused his brain in a litre of bleach.

He didn’t realize he too was a shaking mess until the gun was swiped, literally swiped, leaving behind nothing but air. The sound of a gunshot went off before Mitch could even raise a hand to give the boy the dignity of a private death. Perfectly aimed, the bullet entered the boy’s skull in what Mitch hoped in hindsight was a quick and painless death.

It didn’t conceal the fact that there was a body where there should have been a living, breathing teenager. Mitch could feel himself hyperventilating, the stress blotting out the shoulders knocking against him as the group reloaded the vans and scurried out of sight.

“You need to decide where your loyalties lie," the associate sneered. "I don't understand why they talk so highly of a coward like you. Useless as dirt."

The group abandoned him there, taking the vehicles with them. It forced Mitch to listen to the ending shot on repeat as he walked back to his apartment, dodging the wash of red and blue that careened down the empty streets to answer the death toll. By then his eyes were stuffy, red, and he could’ve been cloaked in millions of dollars and he wouldn’t have cared.

The fact that it was so normalized should have been the first of many warning bells, but seeing his friends, men he’d grown up, with show little to no remorse simply justified his conviction. He knew whose side he was on, and it wasn’t the criminals. If he was expected to kill to rake in a profit, then he wouldn’t rake in a profit.

Many times, he told himself late at night that he would stop, that this was the last time. That night, something felt different. The electrical bill hadn’t been paid so he was surrounded by a few wax-dribbled candles trying to keep warm as he made arrangements to finally enact a plan to get out before the weight of his actions corrupted him into becoming a monster just like the soldiers fighting outside of his door. Chris would be angry. Auston moreso. But that was the price of freedom.

His loyalty died, but the vision of the boy remained forever. Every time he closed his eyes the scared face was looking up at him, pleading for a dosage of compassion that would drop the pistol and let him run free. Each time he saw him there was another log added to the wildfire of Mitch’s resolve; one that would finally put to use his skills in the greatest example of espionage the London Knights would ever experience.

He hoped then, he’d find some peace knowing he could have intervened that day. Maybe that dumb audience laugh track playing in the back of his head would shut up and let him sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set from the post-kidnapping viewpoint of a captive Mitch. He is held against his will and tries to escape. He and Auston get into a scuffle that leaves him restrained and blindfolded in solidarity for a few hours. He is briefly terrorized by the idea of Auston non consensually advancing on or murdering him but no such thing occurs.
> 
> Mitch witnesses a teenager (age seventeen) murdered and spirals into a panic attack. Ask if anything else needs to be tagged and I will comply.


	2. December 9, 2025

**December 9, 2025**

There was an arm over his chest that he hadn’t fallen asleep to.

At first, he thought maybe Olivia had rolled over in her sleep and hugged him tight, mistaking him for her teddy bear, but on additional inspection he concluded the weight was too solid and firm to be her. The puffs of breath hitting the nape of his neck came off like grunts, not foreign, surprisingly, but _off_. Something was off. It was so hot he could barely breathe. And when he caught sight of a gap between the blinds shrouding the window, he saw skyscrapers where there should have been condos; a black sky where there should be stars twinkling above just beyond the treetops.

When he looked over he saw Auston Matthews where Olivia should’ve been, panic clawed its way up his chest. The memories of the day came trickling back as if dripped through an IV stand. Each one surfaced a toxic blemish of emotions that he couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ understand. It hurt just thinking about it, imagining himself crawling back to Auston after all he did to ruin his life. He had no recollection of consciously making the move to the bed but the response could have been purely automatic, in the fashion of their relationship. Even if he’d slept with him on numerous occasions he didn’t want to _now_. It wasn’t like he was sleeping with some stranger, it was just the man that happened to be his kidnapper.

In all the year he’d known, kissed, and fucked Auston he’d never even considered the possibility the man was this sociopathic. Even if he worked in the mob, Auston was an all-around gentleman that looked to respect his decision. On the night he’d sucked up the courage to tell Auston he was leaving there had been little fight, in fact, he’d seen repentance in its place. Mitch should never have trusted those instincts; should have cut Auston off at the source and moved farther away, never replied to Naz and made his brother keep his mouth shut.

Auston’s sleeping hold may have been firm but Mitch was slim enough to squirm his way out of it. With his memories came the new objective to locate that damn key card and slip away unnoticed before Auston had any semblance of doubt that Mitch was no longer there. The comforter bunched up underneath his legs, sheets stripped back to give him enough room to move as he pressed his head down to get out of the choke-hold against him.

He was looking for the wallet; if he got lucky it would hold the key card and likely enough cash to feel confident hailing a taxi down with. The question became where Auston would stow away his belongings. The possibility there were in some locked safe or outside the confines of the bedchambers would be high but throwing away the opportunity of escape because of some fleeting hesitation was foolish at best.

The greatest challenge was exiting the bed and making his way over to rummage through the contents of the drawers without hinting to Auston that he was awake and moving. There was a blistering headache hibernating behind the crease of his brow, pounding away at his composure with steady punches. He withheld the wincing and groans with the promise of tasting fresh air again. Generally speaking, he could put up with a few minutes of ache if it meant getting away from even a second longer spent apprehended by Auston’s hands.

He tiptoed across the planks to reach the ebony wood of the dresser drawers, which against the modernistic appeal of the apartment stuck out like a sore thumb. The top drawers looked the most disturbed, so he nosed around them first, gently tugged them back so that the drawer itself slid forward without producing the rumbling sounds that would only contribute to the issue at hand. Inside, there was a collection of ties, all neatly arranged, some pre-tied and set to the side. Auston was so spoiled by his supervisors that Mitch wouldn’t be surprised if he had someone come in just to dress him each morning.

The flickering tendrils of envy kept eating away at him as he shifted through the clothing. It was a tug-of-war between quite literally throwing Auston’s clothes in every direction to convey his profound disrespect for the man and at the same time, the will to set everything down as if it was made of glass as to not give away what he was doing in the dead of night. Auston seemed like the kind of guy to notice a chair had been moved an inch and suspect a home intrusion. But maybe, that was just for appearance’s sake.

Truth be told, Mitch’s comprehension of Auston was limited at best. They met and pursued a relationship because of unique circumstances. It wasn’t like Mitch would risk his life to save Auston from dangling off the side of a cliff if fate called for it. That kind of gushy, romantic “I’d do anything for you” relationship never settled in. Mitch never got the impression that they were monogamous; Auston of all people reeked of the charisma and self-confidence of someone with many achievements under their belt in the bed department.

Maybe the signs had been there and he ignored them. Maybe he was so caught up in trying not to catch feelings to their agreement that he’d never noticed the underlying passion behind each spoken word, every hidden encounter. In that way, perhaps, he was wrong. If he was guilty of somehow mislabelling Auston then call him villainous, but it didn’t justify his treatment then.

Another drawer, another disappointment. Button-up shirts, dress pants, a few scarves, one in particular that felt familiar brushing against his bruised knuckles. It was all so orderly, but when he sifted through and dug deeper there would be the cracks of a young adult beneath. Loose change wrapped in the scarves and a plastic bag containing zip ties that Mitch promptly disposed of behind the mirror for future use (and so that they couldn’t be used against him again, his wrists reminded him with a solemn ache). Some of the drawers closest to the edge housed hair products and gels, all removed from cluttering the top when Mitch had been confined to the bathroom. He could recognize some of the product labels; all thing he would see for sale on store shelves and have to turn away from when he realized the luxury of owning them.

The whole experience was a testament to his patience and a means of measuring his own income against Auston’s increasingly lavish lifestyle. In this room alone he owned more than Mitch could ever hope for, and yet, he was still greedy.

It scared Mitch because it reminded him so much of himself in his early years. He wondered if Auston would hit that point too when the cash he raked in became meaningless, when he needed something--someone that would break him from the monotony of the cycle. Olivia had been his beacon of hope at a time when there was little. Was there still hope for a mob leader in training?

Taking into account all he’d gone through, it was hard to muster even an ounce of pity. He’d had his struggles now and again and found the restraint to not kidnap his one night stands.

The more casual clothes were situated at the dresser end farthest from the bed and closest to the walk-in. There was a wide range of t-shirt Mitch had never seen Auston wear, what looked like a hoodie that Mitch didn’t bring out, and a collection of wool socks that seemed ridiculous when taking into account Auston’s history of trying to attend events in formal wear without them. They must be fulfilling some duty on the side, otherwise, he couldn’t think of a reason they’d be inside. Still, no wallet.

The entire middle row pressed between the two other columns was empty. Well, empty was exaggerating. There were a few sweatpants and sweaters tossed in half-heartedly. Nothing grabbed his attention initially, besides for a few emblems tucked away in the back. They wouldn’t be seen initially unless you stuck your head half inside but upon raking his hand through Mitch was able to find a Leafs’ charm attached to a steel necklace. He twirled the chain in his hands, the metal cold against his clammy hands, then returned it back to the drawer. It was of no use to him anyway.

Auston sniffled behind him and he froze, gently turning his head to see if he was awake. He’d rolled to face Mitch’s direction, one arm pinned underneath his head but otherwise no major adjustments. Mitch held his breath until he was sure Auston wouldn’t come charging at him, then started to open the bottom drawers in search of the wallet, which coincidentally held nothing of value either. Auston had cleansed any evidence of him living an abnormal life in the blink of an eye.

Mitch, still trying to breathe quietly, made his way over to the walk-in closet where the remaining clothes likely were. It didn’t budge. When he crouched he could see a hole in the knob where it would lock. Maybe if he had a pin or shiv or something small enough he could jab it in. It definitely looked like the place to keep something hidden. The only other option in the room that wasn’t the end table directly beside Auston was the ensuite but it carried with it connotations of a sore back and legs, arms bitten by the plastic teeth of zip ties.

He mustered up the courage to not return to the bed and entered the room slowly, as if he were approaching a rabid dog. He expected to be jumped and hogtied if he was caught snooping.

The room was pitch black, eliminating even the reflective surfaces. Even as he let his eyes adjust the ensuite was still an unfamiliar room at night. When he felt up the wall he swore he passed a light switch; it was either that or something small and knobby sticking out in the middle of the wall for no reason. There was the issue of his concussion but he wouldn’t be in there long. He flipped the light switch on and revealed the entire glossy sheen of the room. It blared with a white rapture that ate away the shadows. It was so bright Mitch’s head began furiously knocking behind his eyes, eyelids closing almost automatically to shield himself from the worst of it.

Q Tips might not work but there was bound to be some kind of skinny object he could stick into the hole to unlock the walk-in closet with. Bobby pins perhaps.

It didn’t take long to realize that something was off-putting about the room, more so than the bedchambers. It could have been because in the heat of the moment he didn’t realize there was another person in there with him (which violated so much of his trust that he couldn’t stand still thinking about hands running over him without his permission) but it felt like it too had been burrowed into and transformed into the prime, catalogue example of what a bathroom should look like.

It was the right kind of clean and organized that set off warning bells. The mongering fear only increased as he found a lack of, well, _anything_ in the whole room. The bathroom was dressed in a pristine white, glimmering with attention. If there was a caretaker Mitch had yet to see them but it helped explain how the windows didn’t have a speck of dirt on them. The gold knobs on the locked cabinets practically sparkling.

What raised concern was the lack of care products or soap left out on the various counters. The body of the shower was spacious, with a handful of shelves decorating its side. It too housed no shampoo or conditioner bottles. There wasn’t even a bar of soap readily available for basic washing which was odd, even for Auston.

“Mitch?”

He nearly jumped back and hit the shower glass. Speak of the devil; Auston was in the entranceway, visibly dishevelled but amusement not lost on Mitch.

“What are you doing? You shouldn’t have the lights on.”

“Uh I was--” he looked around, eyes meeting the empty shower shelves. “Why isn’t there any soap in your bathroom?” he asked in an attempt to deflect the attention elsewhere.

“There should be a bottle of hand soap,” he said, brushing past Mitch to turn on the tap and wash his hands, pointedly using the liquid soap dispenser on the sink’s counter. Mitch shuffled his feet.

“No, like, actual soap. For washing?”

Auston stopped the tap, walking over to the gray, frilly hand towels hanging off of the wall stand and drying his hand with two simple swipes.

“Oh. If you need to shower you can just ask me.”

“To--to shower?” Mitch asked.

“Yeah,” Auston said. “I'll show you where everything is. But it's late, you don't need to shower now. Come back to bed.”

“I'm not sleeping with you,” he said, as Auston walked around the corner, turning the lights out in the process and plunging the bathroom into darkness.

“You already were,” Auston called out, “don't kid yourself. Come on.”

Auston was under the sheets when Mitch exited the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Auston patted the space beside him on the bed, where the opposite pillow had already taken the indent of Mitch’s head.

Mitch made a show of himself by stalking, on the tips of his toes, to the window and laying down on the hard tile. He waited for a verbal protest, for Auston to get up and drag him, but no such thing occurred. The room fell into an uneasy quiet, Auston’s deep huffs eating away at Mitch’s composure.

The planks were unforgiving, shoving against his back whenever he got comfortable. He forced himself deathly still, throwing his head on top of his arm and waiting. He could imagine how much his back would cramp up tomorrow under the strain of tonight.

Maybe Auston would relent and let him sleep on the couch. It was better than the hardwood.

After a couple minutes something behind him moved and he forced himself still. The floor creaked slightly as the sound of footsteps grew closer, eventually spawning a shadow that loomed over Mitch. Carefully, as if swaddling a baby, a pair of arms reached down and wrapped around Mitch’s waist and torso, hefting him up with a grunt. For his own safety, Mitch kept his eyes closed and breathing levelled, not wanting to give away that he was still conscious.

“Oh Mitchy,” Auston whispered, whisking away Mitch’s hair with a sweep of his hand. The faint imprint of lips grazed Mitch’s forehead, invoking a full body shiver. He wanted _out_. He half expected Auston to feel him up then and there; why else was he being swung around like a toy? However, the only part of him that was touched was the bracelet around his arm and a lock of his hair.

Mitch’s neck sang in relief when it hit an ocean of soft fabric and pillows. A few bangs of his were trapped under his head when he was placed down but he maintained his position until he was sure Auston wouldn’t move anymore. He waited. Waited for the soft snores, for the twitching, tossing, and turning to stop.

Once he was sure Auston was asleep, he got up from the bed and moved back to the floor, inevitably expecting to wake up back in the bed the next morning.

 

**April 20, 2025**

It was amazing how travelling a half an hour out of downtown London made for such a drastic change of scenery.

Long gone were the graffiti walls and overflowing dumpster components, replaced with charming corner stores and local businesses with loyal customers entering and exiting the cute little antique doors, swinging their shopping bags behind them.

This place, with its people who’d never in their life seen a robbery nor been touched by the greedy hands of mob bosses and local gangsters alike owned every component of a perfect life for Mitch. So much so that he didn’t mind getting up every Sunday at six in the morning just to catch a bus and transfer to three more in some flimsy, metaphorical attempt at escape. Chris had laughed in his face when he mentioned volunteering out loud, but it sounded like a good idea the more he thought about it. Mitch’d had plenty of experience unloading stock from raids and making sure all the goods were accounted for, so what was the difference when instead of weapons he trafficked produce?

That’s how he found himself going through the city’s website and submitting an application. He knew it was hopeless to apply for a part-time position considering his lack of education or insight, but they’d be fools to deny free manual labour on a day when most people were content to not leave the house. It would be something to put on a resume, but more importantly, something to take his mind off the screams of the man whose skull had been blown through. The sound had followed him home long after the ambush, and like a creepy nursery rhyme, spun over and over again in his head as he stared up at the ceiling at night, feigning sleep.

The first week had been, well, what he expected. Being ordered around, stocking the various stalls, helping trucks back into the parking lot. The difference had been in the reception. He kept his tattoo covered just to keep law enforcement from pulling him aside, but even with his bruises and scars the packs of elderly women and stay at home mothers didn’t even flinch when he offered to help. It was easy to apply himself to the normalcy of the area when he wasn’t getting suspicious looks; when people didn’t pat their back pocket after he walked by to make sure he hadn’t swiped their wallet.

As the locals got to know him better, he found himself enjoying the quiet, slow-moving theme belonging to the neighbourhood square. He paid his dues and ruffled kids’ hair when they ran by and tripped over the parking bumpers because they weren’t watching where they were going. It was fruitful too, in that he got the leftovers that didn’t sell. He made enough working odd jobs both with and without his criminal occupation but it only helped solidify him and his aspirations.p

It was mid-spring when he began volunteering but by the beginning of summer he felt comfortable enough to help the workers with their errands. Which is why he didn’t see it as out of the ordinary to help the young woman struggling to juggle a bin of asparagus and basket of lemons on top of each other. The lemons looked really to topple when he stepped in, pouncing in the woman’s direction as he raced to beat gravity.

“Whoa there,” he said, the excess weight throwing him off balance.

The woman grabbed his elbow to anchor him to the ground. It took them both a second to recover, but when he did he tried to ice over the invasive attempt at help with an open-mouthed smile.

“Thanks,” she puffed, “I didn’t realize how hard it would be to carry those until the lemons started rolling back and forth.” She adjusted her handle on the plastic asparagus crate and looked like she wanted him to put the basket back on top despite the obvious problems it caused. Mitch shook his head.

“Don’t worry about it. Here, let me help. It’ll be quicker with the two of us.”

“Uh, thanks. I’m just by the produce booth. It’s not far.” She led him through the winding trails, beside the greenery and shrubs on display underneath the oak trees until they approached a pinstriped green and white tent in the middle of a heavy traffic area. An older man and woman were manning the store, surrounded by a crowd of people and plastic bins and wooden boxes filled to the brim with fruit and vegetables.

The woman strutted in, head held high with confidence even as her arms were bogged down with the weight. Hesitantly, Mitch followed, intending to drop the crate off and return to his station. Before he could, the woman turned around and clasped him on the shoulder.

“Thank you again,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s my job.” The man at the front of the stand turned to give him a look, causing Mitch to wither under the scrutiny.

The woman didn't notice, still pressing her hand to his shoulder. “Oh, do you volunteer, or is your family here?”

Mitch rolled his shoulder back, arching his chin at the wooden platform a ways back where the volunteers congregated.

Once upon a time, he might’ve wished his family had the income to support themselves and a business like this. Or even indulge in the luxury of nutritious food. This world was always the taboo “other side,” where the middle-income families got by and the poorer, less fortunate ones died off.

“I volunteer. So if you need help, well, just call on me,” he grinned, trying to brush off the awkward tinge that his offer couldn’t escape. “Oh yeah, I’m Mitch,” he held out his dirt-covered hand. “Usually I don’t go try to spook people but I’m pretty familiar with most of the farmers so I just go right at it. Sorry if I jumped at you there.”

She took his hand and gave it a firm shake, the grease from some unknown substance transferring to his hand. He supposed it was what he got, offering a dirty hand, but all he could concentrate on in the moment was how cold her hands were in comparison.

“Oh, no, it’s cool. I was a bit confused but I forgot how up-and-at-em you volunteers are. Kinda miss the extra help back at the store.”

“You’ve been at the market before?” His eyes picked at her attire like the talons of a vulture, trying to identify any elements of similarity.

“My family and I come here every summer to increase sales. People are a lot more willing to come to a farmer’s market and sample the goods compared to walking into a stuffy good foods section of the corner store. Here we get the recognition we want, so it’s been sort of an annual thing. Oh, and I’m Olivia. Nice to meet you, Mitch.”

He didn’t hang around much after that but he did help Olivia's family clean up mid-afternoon when the crowds dispersed. During the time they talked idly about tangerines and oranges, a topic brought on by a squashed orange fruit carcass on the sidewalk as he and her parents loaded their maroon pickup truck.

He thought it would be an idle friendship, that they’d meet over the summer and wave when they passed by their stalls. When he started coming across her more often than not however, it was like lighting a match and throwing it into a pile of kindling. Something clicked. Oliva was so easy to talk to, passionate about her work, grounded. She could talk forever about what it was like growing strawberry bushes at her house’s garden or the pleasures of handling warm bread in the morning and Mitch was happy to sit beside her and stare at the clouds as he listened.

Olivia was a lot like summer. Warm and bubbly, quieter in the morning when the birds were chirping and cordial into the long hours of the night. Having someone his own age, with a lifestyle that paralleled his, close, but never touching, was like eating the forbidden fruit. Tasting a life he could never have but still masqueraded in to satisfy his own curiosity. Now that he was submerged in it, it was hard to unhook himself. Hard to leave the well-off common people and go back to sleep down with the rats.

Which is why he nearly cried when Olivia pulled him aside one day with her father, mid-August when the harvest shipments were more plentiful and the smog around the city a thick blanket that choked the oxygen from the trees.

“Olivia and I were talking,” Olivia's father started out, voice rough, “we could use some more help around the place but we only like to hire inside the family. People we trust. I know you may have other commitments, but if you’d be willing to work weeks, well--” That had a lot of implications, ones that unlocked that cage constricting Mitch’s chest.

“Wait, wait a minute sir. Are you offering me a job?” He was flabbergasted. He knew he helped the man’s family more than the other volunteers and that he was good friends with their daughter but the expectation was always that he’d just get extended volunteer opportunities. This was something else entirely and it partially scared him.

“Yes. Should you want it. It’d be until November-ish and maybe longer, depending.” Mitch looked at Olivia, her expression of happiness mirroring his. She knew about his poor roots, what he’d wanted out of a young adulthood, how he planned to shape his future around new opportunities.

He split into a grin then and there, using every last cell of restraint inside of him to not jump up and hug the both of them. He settled for crying those happy tears instead, ones he could never show to his real family. Olivia moved in close to comfort him, leading him away while her father promised to get documentation and arrange a time for them to meet up at the shop.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, swinging their linked hands together.

“We needed the help anyway. You’re always around, they like you, why wouldn’t I?” It hit him that it was the first likeness to a family that he’d had in a long, long time.

Mitch used his spare hand to wipe away what felt like the beginning of tears stemming from the corner of his eyes (though that was probably a grand over exaggeration). Whatever caged bird had made its home in his chest was finally free; he felt cleansed. A dip in holy water, an orgasmic release from scrutiny. Olivia was the morphine that sedated all those disparities swimming in his head, the ones trying to wedge their fingers into his ribcage and pull until there was nothing left inside of him.

Self-deprecation had been the normal voice in his head that never really went away. Whenever Olivia was around it was like he stopped chugging gasoline and running on fumes, finally letting those scars heal with pointless laughter and a dose of sunlight. Kissing her was a bonus. Calling any act of exchanging saliva as flavourful was probably disgusting to hear, but she tasted like heavenly nectar. It was addicting.

Night fell quickly, the mosquitos and fireflies out to courtesy in the high grass. He needed to leave in twenty minutes to catch the last bus downtown in spite of his interests of staying. Despite it, every time Olivia pulled away he’d whine and chase her again, bathing in the warmth radiating from her. His phone called out the last alarm, separating them for the first time since they'd linked their elbows together and dipped into the atmospheric pull of nature around them. He kissed her one last time, not a goodbye, but an “until next time” that elicited little sparks on the curve of his bottom lip.

He had to run to reach the station, waving down the bus driver before he pulled away from the stop. He ran, huffing up to the front doors, tossed his tickets into the dispenser and walked, panting, down the abandoned isle. The bus pulled into motion, momentarily throwing him off balance as he threw himself into the nearest row of seats. His bag thumped down, reserving a spot beside him.

All of a sudden, his back pocket awoke in a flurry of vibrations, all clamouring for his attention. He stuck a hand in to retrieve his phone, expecting it to be Olivia saying goodbye or chiding him for forgetting some meaningless trinket and was taken back when in place of her name was Auston’s. The white numbers looked back at him, smirking.

Auston never called and when he did it was when he was in London and looking for a hookup. With Olivia now in the picture occupying a significant portion of his life and Auston representing the obvious side he wanted to lean away from, the decision was obvious.

He declined the call and returned the phone to his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a kidnapping victim being unconsciously moved to a bed without his consent repeatedly but is otherwise tame. If there's anything I forgot to mention or tag please let me know and I'll do so immediately.


	3. December 16, 2025

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes for warnings.

**December 16, 2025**

In London, they kept schedules. Reports, you could call them, about every person they engaged with and who they were subservient to. It was useful when determining who deserved their trust, who was a person of interest, and where they could be contacted.

It became so ingrained in his habits that when he found an open notebook in the living room left unattended, he swiped it.

The cover and back were made of fine leather, the first few pages filled with scribbles and equations Mitch couldn’t hope to understand. Some pages had notes on various charity names and reminders but was sparsely used from the looks of it. He didn’t feel bad smuggling it into his hoard.

The hoard in question was a tiny nest he’d concealed behind the bedroom end table where Auston never went. Already, the space between the window and the bedside table was so thin that it was a squeeze to slip through, so if Mitch paid his dues and slept beside Auston the man never came within view of it. Behind the space of the back, along the multiple electrical wires, he stored Chris’ old bracelet, a pen he’d found in the kitchen, the spare change from the drawers, and a letter opener from one of the kitchen cabinets unlocked by chance. To some, the items were meaningless, but anything he could use to make himself feel better about his situation was important.

Every day Mitch wrote the date, how many days since his capture, and when Auston left and came home. It added a sense of normalcy, and helped him predict when he could rummage around and when he should be back in the room. Even little quirks, things his friends said in the past that he wanted to keep with him, memories or keys he’d come across and what doors were locked, were all jotted down. Auston, as he’d come to find, wasn’t much different from the rogue businessmen Mitch had catalogued before.

He learned that Auston left every morning at around seven to give himself time for the commute and made a simple breakfast. If Mitch wasn’t awake before he left, he didn’t offer breakfast and Mitch would go without.

Like a barbarian, Mitch had found his daily nutrition from sneaking into the kitchen after Auston left and collecting the scraps left behind, whether it be bread crusts, crumbs, or empty containers that had yet to be washed. A racoon would’ve probably denied the offerings, but Mitch was too famished to care about where the source of his food came from, only that he would have enough to keep from starving to death, curled up in a ball on the bed of his kidnapper.

But he’d severely underestimated the extent of Auston’s self-restraint, and eight days after his arrival the strain that was winding itself in his stomach snapped under the coercion brought by hunger. The instinct to survive overpowered any act of defiance he’d been cooking up, and now on the bed, without the strength to stand up and walk, he wondered how he would bring his plan to fruition. It was useless trying to apologize when you weren’t in the same room as the person you were trying to apologize to.

Luckily for him, some sadistic, twisted angel had taken mercy on his plight. When the first indications of cooking--pots clanging in their respective cabinets, the sound of the fridge running, the smell of spices heavy in the air--made themselves known, he initially curled up to block it out. His mouth was salivating so much that the excess from the glands was swamping his tongue. It tasted syrupy slick, coating his throat in a lukewarm pool that disgusted him. But it seemed no matter how much he swallowed he couldn’t get rid of it.

He’d become so enraptured by his own deteriorating condition that he didn’t notice Auston had entered the room until he pressed a cold hand to Mitch’s cheek. The temperature shock interrupted the haze that had been bathing him, and forced his eyes to align with Auston’s own darker ones. The edges of Auston’s face were blurry, smudging into the contents of the room behind him.

“Mitch?” The hand snaked down to his collarbone and gave it a tiny shake. Mitch swallowed again, but all that came out was a gurgle. The excess build up was hard to breathe around, so he turned on his side to clear his airway and push his elbows back against the soft fabric of the sheets.

His stomach was cramping up against, and it made uncurling from a ball hard. It felt like someone had sat on his ribcage, pulling him down underneath. He might’ve laughed, but he thought it would only aggravate problems. Auston’s hand returned to his face, pushing away some of the hair fluffed up over his eyes.

“I’m making dinner, you should eat tonight.”

He wanted to weep. He couldn’t shake his head without feeling the dizziness haunt every crevice of his mind. Auston being around placed further emphasis on his discomfort.

“Mmm,” he hummed.

“Is that a yes? Do you need me to carry you? You can wait on the couch until it’s ready. It’s probably better than this room.”

The couch sounded nice. The fabric was so soft to the touch and your head could sink into the cushions forever. He didn’t however, want Auston touching him, so he made an effort to stand up again.

It was a slow and steady grind to swing his legs around and stand up, but he felt more stimulated under Auston’s intense looks. He craved the independence that getting up unassisted could give, and felt a surge of pride when he rocked only once when he rose to his full height. Persistent, Auston buzzed around his head like a fly, walking beside him until they reached the door frame and then waiting for Mitch to leave before following him out.

Outside the bedroom, the smell of food was thicker, and it stuck in Mitch’s nostrils when he breathed in. Another fainting spell grabbed him by the shoulder but he kept it together long enough to trudge to the white couch and collapse across it. Auston let him be, disappearing behind the marble counters to continue working.

It felt stupid to say out loud, but the air felt fresher here. The space was open; he could stretch his arms out without hitting anything. The ceiling was higher and dappled with specks of green and blue light from the buildings outside. A draft was coming from an open window somewhere in a vapid attempt to cool the kitchen, and it kissed every inch of Mitch’s skin until the sickly flush had left his body.

From there, he closed his eyes and just listened to the bubbling water and clatter from kitchen utensils being moved around. His whole world was reduced to sludge, sparks flickering in front of his closed eyes as his head continue to reject his disapproval of Auston’s treatment. The promise of food being dangled within reach was awakening the hunger pains, his stomach realizing it was no longer forced to cannibalize itself for the vitamins it so desperately needed.

At least while sedated by exhaustion he couldn’t be wracked with the ache and the discomfort brought by starvation. This was a different kind of agony, that, combined with the physical sensations brought on an almost extrinsic experience. He kept himself grounded to reality by repeating the day’s date over and over again. Then his brother’s name, his mother’s name, his father’s--

It felt like centuries had slunk past when Auston finally plated dinner. That time, he allowed the man to take his hand and carry his weight towards the table. He felt pathetic, limping around like a wounded animal when his only attacker was his own stupidity. He didn’t have the will to flinch when Auston pulled the chair out and sat him down or when his hand lingered a second longer than necessary. All he could focus on was the delectable smell wafting up from the plate beneath him, steam rising in dim fumes right in front of his eyes.

“It’s not gourmet, but hopefully you’ll like it. Hyms taught me it but I need a second opinion before I make any conclusions.” Auston could have been shouting bloody murder and Mitch wouldn’t have cared, his focus was directed at the glistening ribbon pasta, curled around the plate in every direction. Hunger was cascading through his body like shrapnel, and he eagerly awaited the cue to eat.

He eyed Auston warily, only to find him looking back. He was waiting, waiting to see what Mitch would do now that he’d finally come out of his coffin to eat live food with him. If he looked back the unsettling circumstances and prison sentence his life had become, the dinner was almost romantic. The lights were dimmed, table immaculately set, and cutlery fanned out on folded white napkins. A single glance spoke of the dedication put in by Auston, and if he wasn’t ravenous he would feel bad about breaking the peace. As hungry as he was though, little details were background noise.

He scooped up the fork and shoved mouthfuls down, moaning around the bubbles sparking along his taste buds. It was orgasmic, almost overwhelming. He was eating so fast that he would practically hear his mother telling him to slow down, lest he choke, but he couldn’t help himself. Every bite he swallowed took away the disappointing ache he’d been plagued with since he got here.

He at least spared himself some dignity and didn’t lick his plate, but when he looked up and saw Auston’s telling smirk, his ears burned; he probably looked like an uncultured child brought in off the streets (which was partially true, but he knew he was better than that). When Auston saw his face fall, he sat up in his chair and cleared his throat.

“There’s leftovers in the pot. On the cold burner,” he said. His fork hit the pasta with a watery sound, plate untouched, like he’d done nothing but watch Mitch.

He paused, reevaluating what he’d said. “I can have them?”

“Take as much as you want,” Auston said, “I won’t eat that much. I knew you’d be hungry, so I made more than normal.” Call it domestic, suspicious, even devoted, but the word that stuck out to Mitch was _familiar_. This was the Auston he’d grown to love on the streets, the one that paid for his mother’s operation and shielded him when gunfire rang out in the alleys. The evidence of the man that clawed him by the chin and threatened a slow and painful death were lost on the openly smiling face, so he felt his defences lower.

It was pitiful, making excuses for an abuser because they were nice, but Mitch’s life depended on Auston’s support. Auston was not obliged to make him food. He could sprinkle cracker shrapnel down Mitch’s throat and keep him on a water diet that left him constantly unsatisfied. If there was any faith left, it awoke in him there.

“Do you, uh, want me to get you anything?” he said. Auston looked up, still smiling, not dampened by Mitch’s hesitance.

“I’m fine with this, thank you. Go on. It’s yours.” His look turned teasing as he reached out to brush Mitch’s waist with an outreached hand when he walked by.

Mitch ignored the touch, self-preservation in mind, and walked around the kitchen islands to where a pot and steamer were lying around. Propped up was a cutting board with various vegetables and spices minced into square pieces. A thin, but sharp-bladed knife sat close by, the blade stained cherry-red with tomato juice.

It was splayed out, obvious enough to call his attention away from Auston as he ate several paces away. Plate in one hand, Mitch reached out with his right hand and grabbed the shaft, pulling it slowly away from its wooden perch. Just holding it made power wash over him, enough to make him dizzy with excitement.

Seconds ago he’d been making excuses. It was amazing how access to a weapon changed all of that. His innate desire for freedom was transforming his host back into his captor, and he felt sick all over again. He would have to kill him.

 _Wait,_ his mind substituted _, killing?_ It was too inhumane, even for Auston. He’d be able to wash his hands from the blood of the body, but not the death of their relationship, of the man he’d once do anything for. That wretched smell would linger in his memories forever. He couldn’t be responsible for something like that. He wasn’t Auston.

 _Not killing, just enough to hurt him_. Enough to stun him so Mitch could snag the card away from the wallet in his pocket and make a run for the elevator. He wouldn’t have shoes or a coat, but once he made it out of the lobby he could find a pedestrian, any pedestrian. He’d taste fresh air again, find his brother and finally apologize, and disappear. Auston wouldn’t die, but he’d get the message: _don’t mess with me_.

He walked slowly, using his plate to hide the weapon. Auston sat unaware, still eating, once pausing to sip from his glass. Hand raised, it presented the perfect opportunity to pounce, and Mitch took it with open arms.

He rushed at Auston with the knife raised over his head, teeth bared in a snarl. He struck down, aiming for his arm, and only missing because Auston’s reflexes out-sped Mitch’s initial blow. When their eyes met, Auston’s pupils had shrunk to pinpoints, hand raised in a defensive gesture.

Mitch took advantage of it to force the knife down, piercing him through the shoulder and feeling nausea boil in his stomach when Auston’s hurt cries rang out through the apartment.

“Fuck!”

Yanking the knife out, he tried to strike again but Auston had identified his attacker and made use of his hesitation. His elbow hit Mitch in the gut, waiting for him to double over before he forced his weight on Mitch and pushed him to the ground. The food Mitch had just eaten threatened to leave then and there, and with his health a priority his grip on the knife slackened as Auston pressed down, one hand gripping his throat to cut off his air supply. Auston swiped it before he could change his mind.

“Give it back to me, no! Give it back--” he said, but it was gradually becoming harder to speak. His plain shirt was quickly being streaked red as Auston’s wound bled through.

“Why are you swinging a knife around Mitch? You could hurt yourself,” Auston huffed as if the situation wasn’t patronizing enough as is. Straddling him, Auston left no room to breathe. His hand pressed into his throat, only pausing when Mitch gagged, and that was it.

The knife was tossed down the room, chittering against the tiles, as Auston slung Mitch over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, only pausing once to flinch against the oncoming pain there. Mitch beat his fists against his back when he returned to his senses, legs lashing out in every direction as a means of defending himself.

“Let me go! Help! Help!” he shrieked, the hallways mimicking his cries for help with startling accuracy. All he could think about was Auston throwing him over the balcony, beating him to death in the bed they’d shared for a solid week.

His fears felt justified when Auston slammed the door to the room open, dropping Mitch on the bed without any care for his comfort. In response, Mitch leapt up, nearly frothing at the corners of his mouth, relying on the only weapons he had left: the remains of his nails. It surprised Mitch when he landed a solid blow, his ring finger’s jagged nail catching Auston’s face when Auston made the mistake of leaning over too far to inspect his handiwork.

Auston reared back, one hand flying to clutch his face. Both of them froze, Mitch out of sympathy and Auston out of genuine pain. Auston hadn’t been expecting the blow, which made matters worse, but the startled look, like he couldn’t imagine Mitch would actually go for his eyes, made cold stones weigh down Mitch’s chest.

When his hand peeled away Mitch couldn’t see any blood--his fingernails had only been given a week to grow after all--but there were angry red lines running down Auston’s forehead, clipping his eyebrow, and stopping at the bridge of his nose. It was shockingly close to his eyelid, where it could’ve done unspeakable damage.

At that point, any motivation behind Mitch’s attack had vanished. He wanted to crawl under the covers and cower away from the torment he knew was going to come. Auston wouldn’t be calm and conniving forever; sooner or later, he’d take what he wanted. But to his surprise, Auston didn’t retaliate. His shoulder burned a crimson colour from the shallow stab wound, but he didn’t pay it any heed, instead walking around the bed to Mitch’s side. Preservation in mind, Mitch edged away, hanging on the other side where the blankets bunched up around his fingertips.

Auston pulled the end table away and Mitch’s stomach dropped. He felt like he was free falling as Auston produced the stash, tucking the notebook under his arm and collecting the other trinkets in his right hand.

“Auston, I’m sorry, I didn’t-“

Auston walked around, ignoring his pleas. He took with him everything that had been behind the table, even Chris’ bracelet.

“I didn’t want--Auston--are you even going to talk to me?” The door closing was his only response, the lock louder than any punch he could’ve thrown.

He thought it would end explosively, that’s what terrified him the most. The first time he’d accused Auston of being not only his keeper, but his abuser had been the first and only time he saw Auston’s persona break, and anger overtook him. He’d grappled Mitch by the throat, holding him up close so that he’d had no choice but to listen.

_“Don’t you ever fucking call me that. You can say I kidnapped you, that I held you here against your will, that I blackmailed you, but I never have nor ever will hit you. Understand?” Mitch nodded frantically in an effort to appease him. Auston dropped Mitch in a miserable lump on the bed, leaving him to massage his throat in the aftermath._

It’d scared him shitless. He thought it would repeat, only this time, with bruises all over.

Mitch didn’t even bother using the pillow. He let his sorrow unfold between him and the mattress, hoping Auston would overhear. He wasn’t tired, but his body ached. He wasn’t hungry, but his stomach was queasy with unbridled fury and fear mixing with his meal. He wanted to purge the remaining pasta in the bathroom, but that would negate the effects of eating in the first place. He didn’t know when--or if--Auston would feed him again. He’d picked himself up after being knocked down one too many times, and all that was left inside of him was a hollow sadness.

So he stayed confined in his misery, curling up once more in the dark room, listening to the sirens below and the people he swore were audible even from the penthouse. When his eyes became too swollen with tears to cry, he sang the alphabet to himself under his breath, then again backwards. Anything to starve off the boredom chewing at his conscience. His brain felt like it was rotting away without any proper stimulation but it was better to think about trivial things than leave his mind up to interpret his punishment.

The source of his discomfort was now the sickness brewing in the pit of his stomach. No matter how much he twisted, no position was comfortable. His skin felt clammy and hot, and he was struck with the urge to splash his face with cold water.

The fight had jostled him too much. There was a pit of unease bottled up in his belly that felt more uncomfortable over time. His mouth was dry, unable to produce any saliva, and it felt like the blood couldn’t circulate to his head. There was a lump moving up his throat, obtrusive and foreign, and the urge to get rid of it was overpowering.

He staggered towards the bathroom, nausea pawing at his throat. He threw open the door, collapsing by the toilet only a few steps in, and began retching. He was on the brink of relief but ended up having to stick a finger down the back of his throat to finally begin heaving into the toilet bowl. A disgustingly wet sound followed, and he gagged, numb from head to toe, running only on survival instinct to get rid of the toxin inside of him.

The bathroom door creaked from behind him, prompting him to stiffen up. His neck and back were sore from stress but they kept arching, forcing his shoulder blades out to make himself look bigger in defence. It hurt, but on the floor, cheek pressed against the surface of the seat, he didn’t have many options. In the end, he deflated against the porcelain hardware, feeling another wave of nausea course through his throat.

Two hands were pulling his hair back, gently petting his back as if to reassure him. The remaining food he ate came up in a discoloured rush, leaving his stomach achingly empty. The back of his mouth stung from the bile that’d risen up, and he groaned.

“Hush, I got you,” Auston, he presumed said, pressing his cold hands to Mitch’s forehead. Ignoring the ongoing conflict still alive between them, Mitch found himself leaning in to chase the sensation. All he could now was dry heave, unable to produce anything else. It felt absolutely miserable but throughout it all the hands remained, a soft voice responding to all of the pained noises with compassion. For the first time since his arrival, he felt grounded by the body pressing in from behind him, actively seeking its love.

Auston could and would harm him if it came to it and Mitch had crossed a line. But if Auston was still angry, he didn't show it. He tilted Mitch’s head to the side, ripping off a piece of toilet paper to dab at the drool dangling from Mitch’s bottom lip. Still feeling hot, Mitch butted his head into Auston’s chest, just to listen to him talk. He felt Auston laugh under his breath.

“You need a shower.”

Normally Mitch would have been unwilling to cooperate with Auston’s demands. Now, he felt obligated to agree with him. A shower did sound nice. Anything to get the stench of vomit away from him and the filthy clothes off of his back.

He took the outstretched hand and followed Auston around the bend to where the shower stall was installed, met with the familiar paste walls and stuffiness that came from the lack of air ventilation there. It was spacious enough for two people, he noted with ease.

Auston was fiddling around with the folding cabinet in the corner of the room. He pulled out two bottles that he deposited in the shower, gesturing at Mitch with his hand. The arm it was attached to had the sleeve rolled up to the shoulder, a cotton swab stuck to the skin with a band-aid. It looked painful, even if it was just from a single stab.

“C’mere. I won’t bite,” Auston said. Mitch walked up, slowing the closer he got to him. Auston ducked over and unbuttoned the collar of his own shirt, pulling it over his head as Mitch observed. He threw it half-heartedly on the counter, then beckoned Mitch closer. When his hand reached for Mitch’s shirt, Mitch jerked himself back.

“Auston--” he said, trying to make sense of what was happening. Auston barely paid him the time of day, shucking his pants off and hopping in place until his legs were out of the waist. Flustered, Mitch tried to look away, feeling intrusive, but Auston was back to clambering for his attention, this time, hands edging towards Mitch’s fly. He knocked them away.

“What? Are you going to shower with your clothes on?” Auston goaded. Mitch eyed Auston’s wound with unease.

“I’m uncomfortable with this,” Mitch said, voice wavering.

Auston peeled the band-aid off with a hiss and tossed the swab into the trash dispenser nearby. The wound glared back at Mitch.

“Why?” Auston was smirking. “I’ve seen you naked lots of times. Either get in or don’t shower.”

The incentive to get clean waned in comparison to his comfort level but an inner voice was nagging him. He didn’t take Auston as one to back down, especially not in his element. If he didn’t do it now, maybe he wouldn’t get the opportunity. Maybe he’d be forced.

He was trembling in place as he weighed his options, all while Auston watched him patiently, thumbing a bar of soap in one hand. He didn’t look particularly troubled by the self-conflict his captive was experiencing.

Mitch’s chest ached with a dull throbbing sensation, head hazy with a light fog. His hands felt numb as they tugged at his collar, pulling it up, over his head, exposing his chest. He worked methodically, hands shaking so much that it was nearly impossible to pull up efficiently. The pressure was only amplified by his audience.

He stripped down completely, kicking away his clothes. Arms crossed over his chest, he stumbled after Auston and listened to the noise of the shower head turning on, spouting out water. He wasn’t anticipating for Auston to thrust him through the shower door with one hand on his back until the cold water hit his chest, practically burning him. He yelped and tried to step away, but Auston was there.

“Hang on,” he said, holding Mitch in front of him. The water gradually warmed up, a slow cook that pelted his chest in surges and only increased in pressure the longer he stayed under it.

Auston gently pushed him to the wall, under the spray. Mitch didn’t want the hands on his body but felt obliged to stand still as they lathered soap around his shoulders, where he normally couldn’t reach. He focused on the sound of the spray hitting the tile floor, the drain gargling the water pooling around their feet.

“You’ve got really pointy shoulders,” Auston mumbled, half to himself. It didn’t feel like it was something Mitch was supposed to hear, so he pointedly ignored it and the little spiders crawling underneath his skin at the notion.

When the hands pressed lower his breath caught and his hand shot out to grab Auston’s.

“It’s okay, I won’t hurt you,” Auston said, easing his hand out of Mitch’s hold and lathering around his ribcage.

Mitch forced himself to relax, though he could feel his legs trembling, struggling to hold his weight. He was leaning more and more against Auston, repeating in his head like a mantra that he needed this, he needed to be good. Even when Auston’s touch slipped between his thighs he held himself up.

“Would you pass me the shampoo?” Auston said.

Mitch let his hands trace over the grooves of the wall and picked out two bottles, holding them up to see which was which. An arm reached over his shoulder and plucked the blue one out of his hold.

He heard the cap snap back, the wheeze of the bottle and the cold, slimy texture as he massaged the shampoo into his scalp. Auston had pointy fingernails--he’d realized it during their first hookups, when they’d clawed Mitch’s back. Now, they felt sharper than ever.

But sharper than any nail was the smell. It was achingly familiar, and he quickly identified it as Auston’s shampoo. The discomfort returned full throttle; this felt too intimate. But he’d already come this far, backing out now would be a coward’s move. Mitch forced himself to stand upright as Auston pushed his head under to wash out the residue. The suds that skirted down the sides of Mitch’s face were collected by Auston’s hand, which protected Mitch's eyes using small swiping motions.

They rocked together, Auston’s hands on his waist, breath hot against the back of his neck.

“I love you,” Auston said, “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I know,” Mitch said, in response. It felt like the right thing to say.

“You know, I would never want to hurt you. I want you to be happy here.” He began kissing the back of Mitch’s neck and shoulders, hands snaking around his stomach and pressing their bodies together under the heated water.

“Please don’t scare me like that again,” Auston said, “I know you’re upset but it does neither of us good.”

Mitch turned around to face him, finally working up the courage to look him in the eye.

Immediately Auston grabbed one of Mitch’s hands and extended it that Mitch could see the indent of the stab wound in his shoulder and touch the surrounding skin. It wasn’t deep nor long, but the rough texture combined with the red soreness made Mitch jerk his hand away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice watery. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are baby, it’s okay. You’re safe now.” Auston returned the soap back to the wall bracket and hugged Mitch from in front. Mouth pressed to Mitch’s ear, Auston crossed his arms over his back.

“But you know you were warned, right? I don’t have to hurt Chris, but you’re giving me little choice. Next time I won’t be as nice, understand?”

Mitch didn’t respond, so Auston dropped his left hand down his mid-back and pulled his right hand up to grab Mitch’s chin, forcing him to look Auston head on.

“Understand?” he asked again, voice dark.

Mitch nodded to pacify Auston’s question, and in turn, Auston’s scary exterior deflated into that of a soft, smiling man.

“Good. Come on, let’s finish up.” Mitch lowered his head, letting Auston rinse the remaining suds out from the back of his head.

His fingers were pruned when Auston finally turned the water off, the water droplets collecting on his skin and sending him into a full-blown shiver. He was still creeped out by the conversation, but the hot water had definitely helped remove the sickly feeling plaguing him since dinner. When Auston handed him a fluffy white towel, he accepted with ease and didn’t flinch when Auston grabbed corresponding hand towel to fluff Mitch’s hair with.

Inwardly, Mitch sputtered under the affection but still found himself leaning in. Maybe it was out of self-preservation. Maybe it was the hope that if he did everything Auston asked he would forget the escape attempt and let everything go back to normal. If so, it transpired him to accept the baggy sweatpants and shirt Auston handed him, two sizes too big for him.

He felt swamped in the excess proportions, but Auston never looked better. Mitch watched as his captor’s self-restraint snapped and he leaned in close to press a single kiss to the top of Mitch’s head.

Mitch thought it would be straight to bed. To his surprise, Auston disappeared out of the room and returned with a plate of saltine crackers, a glass of water in hand. Food was so unappetizing at the minute, but Auston’s look made it clear that he didn’t have a choice in the matter.

He was tugged into Auston’s lag, knees hugging Auston’s hips as the plate was placed carefully down on the bed so that it wouldn’t tip. Mitch obediently opened his mouth and let Auston break a cracker in half and press it to the surface of his tongue. The taste of salt licked at the back of his mouth, saliva pooling at the back of his mouth at the reintroduction of food.

“Slowly,” Auston said, and Mitch slowed his nibbling speed. The satisfying crunch was appeasing the choir of noises coming from his stomach. “There you go, here--” The rim of the plastic cup was pressed to Mitch’s lips, dipping in until they parted and a few drops inched down the back of Mitch’s throat.

Auston periodically switched between them, giving Mitch time to swallow before altering. The water droplets from their still-damp hair rained down around in a halo of sorts on the bed sheets. It would be uncomfortable to sleep on, but it was the last thing on both of their minds. Dinner earlier in the evening had been a race against time, instinct, and the adrenaline driving Mitch to act impulsively. This was the opposite; inviting a drawling quiet to wash over them as the sensitivity of the act rewired the get out, get away, run compulsion that was still established within Mitch.

In the days following the incident Mitch saw the reappearance of the notebook and pen on the dresser drawer. The only difference was that the pages he’d been using to catalogue Auston and his schedule were torn out.

The following meal times he was never offered a knife.

 

**April 30, 2025**

There was some mantra passed around by the men in London; leaving behind a brother in peril was like leaving a woman scorned. You weren’t supposed to do it, and it wasn’t supposed to just be taking in the metaphorical aspect, but the literal one too.

When Chris came slinking back from a needless fight, one hand pressed against a blood-soaked ear, Mitch had stepped aside, philosophy sticking to his head like wax.

He didn’t think it would be very permanent, but having Chris around made it difficult to sneak out and do his side work. It meant more questions, heightened suspicions, and though Chris was considerate enough to allocate some of his funds to pay for rent and food, the costs greatly outweighed the benefits.

With that level of stress brewing unsaid, it was no wonder that one day everything blew up in their face, and it had to be when Mitch had been functioning for so well, finally having a good day where his social interactions didn’t go wrong and he’d managed to appease his gang boss with his efficient work ethic, a small victory on a battlefield he’d been doing nothing but losing in lately. To celebrate, he’d bought food, intending to make a nice dinner and hopefully ice over the tensions fostering between him and his brother over the past few days.

Chris was situated in the living room, nursing a bump on his head with an ice pack. He didn’t look up as Mitch entered but saluted in greeting when Mitch put the bags of groceries down on the scratchy hardwood floor.

Mitch nodded back, pushing the backs down and reliving the incessant groaning coming from his back.

“You wanna come and help?” he asked, hearing his brother moan but ultimately put his ice pack down and lend a hand stocking the mini fridge they had plugged into the wall. There wasn’t an abundance of produce because, as they’d learned, it was impossible to use it all even in the span of a week, but enough to stand out as lacking in the gang-oriented nutrition. Normally, it consisted of whatever fast food joints could cough up and the easy to make kids meals taught at local babysitting courses but still used by adults.

Something as simple as a change in diet could leave such a big impact. Already Mitch felt the sugar flushing itself from his system, his vision a bit better, energy levels high. He couldn’t attribute everything to cutting up celery in the morning, but he still found himself obsessing over it. Chris wasn’t as grateful.

“Are you sure we’re going to be able to eat this?” he asked, tone skeptical.

“Yes, I know how to cook.” Mitch rolled his eyes. “It’s good for you. You’ll feel better when you eat healthier foods,” he replied, stuffing the extra milk bags in the lower compartment.

Chris ran his hands under the sink water, head tossed back.

“You seem peppier than usual today. And here I thought working shifts was draining.” He flicked his hand at Mitch, sending water droplets flying everywhere.

Mitch ducked away from the spray, crouching behind the microwave oven for protection.

“Work’s just been--I don’t know, great? A lot more freedom,” Mitch said, standing back up.

“Most people would argue the opposite,” Chris said under his breath, kicking his back leg out. 

Mitch laughed to himself. “Well, most people haven’t been in a gang for half their life. It’s totally different in the real world. We’re actually allowed to keep the money we make in a day’s work.” He would flash the twenty dollar bills stuffed in his back pocket, but he’d long since learned that showing someone you had money was destined to lead to problems, regardless if they were a friend, parent, or even a brother. Deep down, he didn’t want to think Chris was capable of that, but there was little telling how his brother would react now. He was taking such a high dosage of painkillers that his emotions ran like a carousel, endlessly changing.

Mitch wet a washcloth and began wiping down the counters so he could use them later, all under the watchful eye of his brother. Something was wrong; their interactions felt stilted, like Chris was hiding something. Mitch sincerely doubted there was a fugitive holed up in the wall, but looked around the corner anyways. He loved his brother but he didn't always approve of the methods he used to sustain himself with.

“Are you telling me everything?” Chris asked, one hand planted on top of his forehead.

“Yeah, why?”

“I dunno. Some guy was here this morning, looking for you. From _work_ , quote unquote." Mitch closed the fridge door and leaned against the wall as he opened a bottle of water, grunting at the thin cap that was nearly impossible to twist.

“Like, from my job now? ‘Cause only Jeffrey knows my address; I guess he was here to drop something off.” But Jeff had no reason to stop by, none in the slightest. They’d had to trade unloading shifts in the warehouse once and Mitch had helped him out when he’d needed a place to go for the night. They weren’t _friends_ friends though, which put up red flags. Chris didn’t look impressed, picking at the sticker on one of the bananas Mitch had bought until it peeled off and drifted to the floor. He made no move to pick it up.

“Yeah, try Auston Matthews.” Mitch paled. “I originally didn’t recognize him, but then he started talking. Mitch, how well do you know this guy? You know I warned you not to engage with them!” Chris said, voice increasing in volume, eyebrows furrowed.

“It wasn’t my fault!” he said, stepping in to defend himself. “It was work related, y’know, for the whole alliance thing? I had to, I was following orders!”

“There’s a difference between following orders and getting nice and comfortable with the enemy. Just how well do you know this guy? Why does a guy from the Leafs know where you live?” Chris tugged at his hair, turning his back to Mitch. “This is so fucking dangerous, oh my god. The last thing you should ever give to a rival gang member is your address.” Mitch froze, up, caught in the heat of the moment. Chris advanced on him.

“Did you? Did you bring him here? You idiot!”

Mitch kicked in the chairs strewn about the room to get closer to Chris, his fear masked by the anger at the accusations.

“In case you forgot this is my apartment. I can do whatever I want. He’s not dangerous.”

“He’s a fucking crime lord in training! What about him is not dangerous Mitch?” Chris pulled him in by his collar, jerking his about until his head spun.

Mitch pushed himself away, massaging his wrist that had been crushed between them.

“I’m doing the best I can, okay? I’m stepping away from that life now. I made mistakes. I know. You don’t have to keep reminding me whenever you’re lying around high on dope. At least _I’m_ trying.”

He couldn’t anticipate Chris throwing him against the wall, eyes piercingly thin with well-tested patience bleeding out. The next blow, Mitch was prepared for, an in an effort to stop the hand from shoving him into the two-person dining table, Mitch yanked at a worn out string bracelet looped around his brother’s wrist. It came off with little resistance, sending Mitch off balance and windmilling into the plastic lawn chairs. He hit his head with a dull thump.

Groaning, he tried to reach his hand out, asking for help, but Chris was either unwilling or unable to give it. He watched Mitch flounder about, clearly disoriented, as he worked against his head to stand upright once more. The strings holding the body of the bracelet together were still clutched in Mitch’s fist.

“Don’t think you can boss me around. You think I’m not trying?”

“I think you don’t want to try!” Mitch screamed. “It’s your fault I met Matthews and it’s also your fault I’m here in the first place! What older brother just casually lets his younger brother enter a life of crime without trying to do anything about it? You at least could make decisions, but I was left to the rats. It’s your fault that I look like this!” He gestured at himself, the scrawny-ness of his frame, the dirt clinging to his hands and face. “I could’ve gone to school and made something of myself, but I’m here, trying to provide for the both of us.”

Chris snorted so loudly there could’ve been smoke trailing out from his nostrils.

“I did the best I can. Go on, defect, see if I care! But when you’re shot full of holes and bleeding out on the cement don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Chris said. There was no hiding the gruff undertone of fury in his voice.

Mitch, in the heat of the moment, pointed towards the door.

“Get out,” he said, a snarl in the back of his throat. Chris blinked.

“What-”

“Get out! If you hate me so much then I don’t want you living here. I’m trying to rebuild the life _you_ gave me, and if you’re not going to support me, then I don’t need you anymore.”

Chris said nothing. He watched, almost befuddled, for a solid five seconds. Then he straightened, shoved his way past Mitch and the fallen chairs, and collected his backpack laying at the foot of the ragged old living room couch. In the blink of an eye he was gone, only leaving behind the bracelet clutched in Mitch’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a successful stabbing and consequent shoulder wound. Mitch is on a hunger strike and slowly starving to death. He is overfed after said hunger strike and as a result throws up (described in detail, warning). He is coerced into taking a shower and though he is not sexually assaulted the consent is dubious at best.


	4. December 31, 2025

**December 31, 2025**

Mitch had never been one to classify the holidays as miserable, even when his family was bare bones, only-eating-rice poor, but he’d officially jumped the shark.

Without his notebook cataloguing the days, the only means of predicting time was counting the mornings to and from his capture, and that soon became disillusioned with how early the sun set and how long the nights were. Every day was the same monotonous drag that sparsely set itself apart from the week before. Still, even he could see the wreaths and decorations lining the streets, the business of the roads and traffic jams when the last-minute gift givers received their annual aneurysm.

More than ever his heart ached, a slideshow of emotion sending him into reckless spiels of groaning and complaining whenever Auston was in the same room as him. Being the only other person Mitch was in contact with, Auston was subjected to his whiplash of emotions leading up to the holidays. One minute Mitch would be sobbing into his pillow, the next throwing derogatory comments at Auston to make him stay his distance. The night would always end with them in the same bed, Mitch’s hands twitching as he looked at Auston’s throat and wondered, _what_ _if_. It looked soft enough to squeeze, and if he sat on Auston’s waist, he could weigh him down.

The thoughts disturbed him, seeped into the cracks of his psyche and implanted themselves in his train of thought. The lack of privacy combined with a month’s worth of sexual tension was evolving into a toxic concoction of _want_ and _hate_. He’d want to kill Auston, smash a lamp over his head and beat into him with his fists until he was black and blue and then want to bury his head into Auston’s chest and hide away, waiting for those blocky arms to ensnare him and never let him leave. He felt like admitting there was love was counterintuitive to his thoughts of escape, so he only continued to repress it until he felt physically sick.

By the time he’d endured the cheers and chants from the free people outside the window he barely had the energy to lift his head in the morning, condemned to his fate. Every interaction sapped the life out of him. He couldn’t keep food down and as he retched into the toilet for the second time in one morning, he realized Auston was becoming concerned too. He looked like he didn’t want to let go, offered to carry Mitch from place to place (which Mitch’s pride would never allow, but the offer stood), and brought food to the bedroom, nursing Mitch with as much kindness as a lover could. He was a businessman, likely the one to succeed a criminal empire, and yet every morning he held a spoon up to Mitch’s mouth and tipped the edge to his mouth so Mitch could drink the soup, eyes soft.

The mixed signals fucked with his mind more than the initial kidnapping ever could.

One night, Mitch exited the bathroom, still pale-faced and dark-eyed, to see Auston with a laptop strewn across his lap, bed covers scrunched at his waist. The light bellowing out elicited an initial shielding of the eyes from Mitch, who was befuddled to see _actual_ _technology_ present in the apartment at the same time as him. He'd assumed Auston would have banned it outright, not wanting Mitch to crave a social connection to the outer society. But there it was, as blunt as a speck of dirt on a white wall; something that did not belong.

Auston was cooing at something present on the screen, not paying Mitch any heed. Destitute without a bed to rest in, Mitch considered sleeping on the floor to give Auston privacy. He grabbed a spare blanket from its place near the laundry hamper and walked towards the space beside the bed he once called home.

Somewhere along the line Auston finally acknowledged his presence, beckoning Mitch over with a wide smile. Dropping the blanket next to a pile of discarded throw pillows, Mitch trudged over, dragging his feet. The bed dipped under his weight. Auston slithered over to make room.

On the other side of the monitor, bordered with a baby blue colour, was a window opening showing two women, one noticeably more aged than the other. The familiarity in their smiles spiked a pinch of dread in Mitch, but they looked so happy and open it was hard to believe the suspicion nagging at his mind.

“Mama, this is Mitch, the boy I was telling you about,” Auston said, voice carrying the same cavity-inducing inflextion he used when feeding or washing Mitch. It was some adult form of baby talk, he swore.

The older woman talked animatedly, spouting praise that Mitch couldn't keep up with. He waved back to placate her, acutely aware of Auston’s arm draped across his back.

“Hi, Mrs. Matthews, I think,” he said, stumbling. He had no idea how much she knew about their living arrangements, so he opted to say as little as possible about the relationship. A brief thought crossed his mind, about trying to flash scared eyes and tell them without speaking that he was in danger. But it was fleeting; Auston’s family would probably know more than anyone else. It was a hopeless endeavour.

Auston nudged the screen back on him and began talking in Spanish, too fast for Mitch to comprehend. Mitch half-heartedly flopped back on the bed, listening to Auston’s talk in his native tongue, answers from both the old and young women voiced in strides.

He didn't think much of it. They looked and sounded like the perfect family. Auston’s resting bitch face was broken up by his smile, his laughs bouncing against the walls and flying back at Mitch. By the early hours of the morning, Mitch was left to withstand was a pang in his heart, wanting his mother to descend down and wrap him in her arms, feeding him nostalgic lullabies until his eyes were heavy.

He'd have to suffice her arms for Auston’s. Mitch had grown used to Auston pressing him close enough to choke the breath out of him when they slept but that night was worse. Whatever conversation he’d had had only reaffirmed his efforts to keep Mitch on a tight, tight leash.

When Auston’s wind chime alarm cried the next morning, the man grumbled into Mitch’s neck, grip tightened enough to stop Mitch from breathing. The panic overrode Mitch’s exhaustion immediately.

“Auston--”

“One minute,” Auston said, still not moving. His legs, which here intertwined with Mitch’s, squeezed. “S’nice here.”

Partially confident it wasn't an asphyxiation attempt, Mitch adjusted his body with tiny movements, trying to not aggravate Auston, who was still bathing in a contagious aura of content. Looking past the tight heat, the bedroom was ashen with the snowfall outside. The blinds were yanked up enough to showcase the light snowfall outside, contrasted by the skyscrapers and penthouse’s darker hue. The whole landscape had a rosy glow to it from the sun, and combined with the heat of the room, the raw beauty made something deep inside of Mitch’s chest stir.

“Yeah, it is nice,” he agreed. Auston snuggled into his back, putting his already quiet alarm on snooze and tempting Mitch with the promise of sleep.

Inevitably, work called, and Auston left the room walking with a skip that looked almost silly attributed to his bigger frame. The differences continued to make themselves known in the kiss he pressed to Mitch’s temple, in open view of the elevator card no less. Later that evening, when he made his grand entrance with a pack of beer after he returned from work, Mitch felt like he needed to slip blinders on.

“I thought you would want to take your mind off of the boredom,” Auston said, and Mitch nearly salivated at the opportunity. Auston walked up to him, beer in hand and a bag of groceries slung over his arm and pressed a finger to Mitch’s lips.

“After supper,” Auston said. “Come help.” He proceeded to lug the bags over to the kitchen counter, producing slabs of pork meat wrapped in plastic.

“What's the occasion?” Mitch poked at the wrap, cracking the ice that had congregated on the surface. He flinched at the blindingly cold temperature.

“Can't I just cook you a nice dinner?”

“Yes, but this is really nice, even for you,” he said.

“I thought I would make you something nice to celebrate New Years,” Auston said, producing a pocket key to turn the refrigerator lock with. He stocked the top counters with the beer slowly letting Mitch examine the contents inside. The sides were chock full of sauces and spices, fruits stored in the bottom drawer. Mitch felt his stomach grumble that paled in comparison to the confusion blocking his response.

“You--it’s New Years?” was all Mitch could say, gripping the marble countertop. “Already?”

“Yeah,” said Auston, a smirk bleeding into his voice. “Feliz año nuevo, Mitch.”

“Wait--shit. I wasn’t--I thought Christmas was tomorrow?” he said, voice breaking. He knew the holidays were approaching quickly, but he thought he would have some inkling of difference in the routine, an indicator, a sign. He didn't even get to see his brother for the holidays and let him know he was alright.

Auston must have been fucking with him. How else would he get the dates wrong so horribly?

Mitch heard Auston sigh over his small hiccups and felt himself be pulled into an embrace. Auston manoeuvred Mitch’s head to his shoulder, forcing the shorter man to stand on the tip of his toes.

“Shh, it's alright. Don't think about that now. We’re going to have a nice dinner and it's going to be sweet. Go wash your hands, you can help me with the seasoning,” Auston said, separating them as soon as he stopped speaking.

It did little to console the distraught Mitch, but he weighed his options. Either he wept in the room by himself or stayed in the warm kitchen and put himself to work. The latter in comparison was the better option to keep himself occupied and stop his mind from running.

He turned the tap on and lathered his hands with the liquid soap supplied, feeling Auston’s eyes peel away as he left the room to go change. Using his few minutes of unrestricted access, Mitch surveyed the room, only finding a sparsely picked row of ingredients sitting on a plastic cutting board. He decided it wouldn’t be worth the effort of rummaging through the drawers looking for something he could use; not when the consequences were so dire. He rinsed the suds off of his hands and dried them on the hand towel provided, looking up as the sound of the bedroom door shutting interrupted the serenity of the moment.

When Auston returned he unsheathed a knife from one of the restricted cabinets, prompting them to both look at each other.

“I'm trusting you,” Auston said slowly, “not to attack me.”

“I won't,” said Mitch, but it rang hollow, even to his own ears. It felt like whenever he handled a weapon dark thoughts would surface and he'd be overcome with aggression.

Auston placed a frilly green plant in front of Mitch on a wooden cutting board.

“I need basil to marinate the pork with. Can you cut it?” Though the second he said it, he was situating himself behind Mitch, hands creeping out from underneath Mitch’s elbows. He grabbed Mitch’s hand and forced it to grip the knife handle securely. Pressed up against him, Mitch could feel the heat of Auston’s chest through his button-up shirt.

“S-Sure. What do I--”

“You stack the leaves like this,” Auston said, resting his chin on Mitch’s shoulder for convenience as he tore the leaves from the stalk and then began piling them. Mitch clutched the knife without any relent in pressure, feeling as though moving even the slightest bit would convince Auston he was going to attack. That was the last thing he wanted, especially now.

“Then you roll it up, like you would a cigar.” Mitch looked over his shoulder, jerking when Auston appeared closer than he thought. Auston gestured at the stack, and Mitch slowly put the knife down, handle facing away from him, and crunched the leaves together to roll them into a bundle.

“Okay, pick up the knife.” Mitch complied, hands shaking. “And just cut it in one motion. There you go, just make little slivers.” The basil curled when he pulled his knife away, folding into a small pile Auston would occasionally sweep away to give him more room. There were probably bigger components of the meal to attend to but Auston didn’t let his focus drift from Mitch, even for a second.

Eventually, he had a pile of stringy cut basil that smelled so strongly Mitch’s eyes watered. Auston scooped them up in one hand, discarding them on another cutting board and wiping the strands clinging to his hand away. With his back turned, there was no way of Auston seeing if Mitch swiped the knife still in his hand.

Mitch swallowed, then put the knife back on the marble, loud enough for the blade to scratch. He hoped Auston heard, just so that it would dissuade any suspicions. Auston didn’t say anything and that was good enough for Mitch.

Dinner was destined to be a quiet ordeal. It tasted different, knowing he had minced the herbs and been responsible for the basil and painting the sauce on the pork chops using the brush-thing (which Auston cordially corrected as a basting brush) that he was definitely over-enthusiastic in using. Somehow, this was conveyed through his expression, and Auston took great pleasure in handing him the brush and letting him do it unassisted. He’d been less happy about cutting onions and being responsible for the pork, but Auston didn’t leave him alone for a second and was generally all-smiles, which was a good indication of things to come.

He was just happy he was allowed to handle something like a knife, even if it came with parental levels of supervision.

“Smells good,” Mitch commented as Auston threw in a spatula topped with chopped garlic in with the onion. “How did you learn how to cook?

“Mama. She said she wasn’t letting me go to university without learning to look after myself. I know a couple dishes and my friends are getting me to try new things so I don’t live off ramen like all the other bachelors.”

The smell of the onion and garlic combined made Mitch back away and watch the steam rising from a distance, enraptured by the almost mechanical way Auston cooked.

“Are you close with her?” Mitch prodded.

Auston looked at him for a split second, then returned to his work.

“Yes. She was really proud of me making it all the way over here,” he said, voice dropping in volume until it neared a whimper. Mitch watched him cover the pan cooking the pork with a lid, eyes droopy with sadness that was so unbecoming of him.

“Why didn’t you visit her for Christmas?” Mitch asked. If his mother was still around she would’ve done anything to get the family together, one last time.

“Business. Too much work to do around here and navigating the airport at this time of year is a headache. Besides, I got family here.” He nosed at Mitch’s shoulder, frown melting away at the corners and transforming into a shy, little smile. “I didn’t want to leave you behind.” The statement felt too loaded to even touch, so Mitch didn’t and stood aside to let him work.

It felt like an eternity before they were able to eat and by then Mitch’s stomach had used every grumble and groan in its vocabulary to voice its displeasure. Initially, he was embarrassed but Auston looked happier than ever to see him actively famished and looking forward to eating, patting Mitch’s stomach whenever he walked by with a promise of _soon_ hanging from his lips.

After his last stunt, Auston had warned Mitch about eating so quickly while simultaneously revoking knife privileges, which made dinner awkward at best. It was clear there was still a divide between them regarding trust and Mitch watched for what had to be the hundredth time as Auston cut his pork with his knife into small pieces he couldn’t choke on, then returned to his own seat at the other side of the table. Mitch waited for him to sit down so they could begin properly and then moved at a sluggish pace as he shoved chunks of meat into his mouth.

It was somewhat rich, enough to burn his stomach after swallowing, and he tried to drink as much water as possible to flush it from his stomach. It wasn’t like he’d stopped eating period like he had his first week there, but having so much solid food was a huge difference. Too often, he found himself just stabbing the meat with his fork, trying to swallow the lump stuck in his throat just so he could continue eating.

All in all, it was a nice dinner, only interrupted by the cheers from outside that kept catching Mitch’s attention whenever he looked up. Auston dunked the dishes in the sink and disappeared around the corner to where the coat closet was crammed into the wall. With nothing to distract him with, Mitch could only twiddle this thumbs until Auston returned, two coats draped over his arm and a pair of beanies bunched in his hand.

“This might be a bit big on you, but you’re probably used to that by now,” Auston said, jerking a coat in Mitch’s direction.

Mitch tucked his chair in and took it from Auston’s arms, wary of the expensive fabric that looked and felt so expensive. He felt bad putting his grubby hands all over it.

Auston donned his respective coat, throwing a beanie at Mitch that hit him in the chest before walking to the fridge and retrieving the six pack of beer. Mitch looked at the hat, hope flaring in his chest.

“Are we going, like, outside?” he asked, trying not to sound too excited.

Auston answered his question with another smile, walking around him as he pulled his beanie on with a spare hand and approached the patio door, blocked by a long white couch. Using his hip, he shoved it aside just enough to fumble and unlock the door, sending a chill through the room when it finally opened and blasted them both.

“Wow,” Mitch said, walking towards it, drawn like a moth to a flame.

Auston let him walk out first, then followed suit, closing the sliding door behind them to preserve the warmth. The first few breaths of air felt like he was swallowing a pin cushion, the needles raining down his throat. He must’ve looked so stupid, the way he turned to smile, open-mouthed, at Auston, but he was incapable of suppressing his joy.

“The air is so fresh out here!” he said, ogling the sights and sounds of the city. It felt like being wrapped in a warm blanket, it felt like being _home_. He half-walked, half-ran over to the ledge and leaned over, feeling the cold air rush up and bite him on the nose. The streets were packed, the distant sound of laughing and drunk patrons being escorted out of bars overpowering. He almost missed the sound of Auston cracking a beer can open until it was thrust right under his nose, an arm wrapping around his waist and wrenching him away from the danger of free-falling.

“You’re just exaggerating. Let’s see how you feel in twenty minutes.” He yanked Mitch’s beanie down until it covered his eyes, leaving Mitch sputtering.

Mitch accepted the can anyways, and left the debilitating fear of heights behind in favour of sitting next to Auston on the chairs provided.

Any conversation topics were soon used up and abandoned. They spent so much time together anyways that they were beyond “how was today,” “what did you do,” and “is the weather nice” starters that were as dull as an old, used up garden shovel. Auston already knew everything about Mitch, the books he read to keep himself busy, the tiresome boredom that tainted his every action. On the opposite end, Mitch knew nothing about Auston, and didn’t want to know. He felt like asking would be inviting an unwelcome conversation about being a member of the Leafs permanently and asking for his input, which was the last thing he wanted to do.

Minutes passed, and Mitch ended up shoving his bare hands into the coat pockets to keep his fingers from falling off. The two of them were nursing their respective beer cans, watching the theatrics from above in a winter wasteland of colour. The CN Tower loomed in the distance, spouting rainbow colours in every direction, painting the surrounding buildings in a candy-coated blush. He felt like speaking now would be disturbing the peace, but the longer time dragged, the more he found himself glancing at Auston from his peripheral. He had to know if Auston was watching him, waiting, beckoning him over to cuddle on the sprawling lounge chairs. He didn’t realize how empty it felt being in the same space with Auston and not being asked to come over and share.

Eventually, he cracked.

“Do you like Toronto?” he asked, putting his beer down on the glass patio table to shove his hands back in his coat. Auston mirrored the action, finally turning on his side.

“Do _you_?” Auston replied, turning the question back on him.

“I mean, I grew up here before we moved to London, so I guess,” he said. He could remember the old house he grew up in, could probably walk the road there from downtown. There was the old rickety fence and yellow windows decked in spider webs. It was rustic, but had its own sense of charm that the nostalgia amplified.

“I mean here. Knowing the city will be yours,” Auston said.

The dread returned, croaking at Mitch, clambering for his attention. He fought back the shiver and looked away.

“Auston--it’s--it’s not that simple,” he said, suddenly yearning to have the can of beer back in his hands, just so he could distract himself and have an excuse for why he suddenly went quiet.

“Why can’t it be? Mitchy, baby, I know this is hard for you, but you gotta give it a chance.”

 _Then you shouldn’t have kidnapped me_ , Mitch almost spit, homesickness adding fuel to the fire. He forced himself down, swallowing the bile congregating in his mouth in a vapid attempt to not yell at Auston fucking Matthews who was very much able to make his life more miserable should he want to.

“It just feels so suffocating being here. I thought- I wanted a normal life, y’know?” He scratched at his nose, pretending he had an itch. “I thought I’d never come back to this kind of life. I’m not fucking okay Auston, even if you want me to be. I’m being held prisoner. How would you feel if you were in my place?” Auston huffed out a breath, reclining back in his chair.

“I think it’s a great opportunity to get the life you never had, the one you were always telling me about? If I was you, I’d be happy someone loved me enough to give me a second chance. I’ve been where you are and I know how hopeless it can be sometimes, but,” he reached out, taking Mitch’s hand in his own, “there are always people that love you and will be there for you. I want to be your person.”

Auston squeezed his hand, intertwining their fingers and bringing them up to his mouth to give Mitch’s hand a little kiss. The response did little to quell Mitch’s insecurities and frustrations, but before he could try to formulate a response, Auston was back to looking at the sky.

“Do you remember when I met you at the old gas station along the highway and you said you wanted to go?” He clearly wasn’t watching Mitch but Mitch’s head instinctually bobbed in affirmation. “For me, it was terrible. I didn’t know what I could say to convince you not to do it.”

“My mind was made up,” Mitch said, pulling his arm away until Auston was forced to let it go. He felt the need to drink more, just to forget the uneasy twisting of his stomach at Auston’s words, the disregard that was becoming more apparent whenever they talked. “I, well, I didn’t want to be there anymore. You said you understood.”

“Yes, but that’s because I couldn’t tell you about the Leafs and London at each other’s throats. London was going to be detonated from the inside out and there was no changing that. You leaving would just exacerbate problems. Once we exposed the Knights, the police would crack down everywhere; you would be taken in. I had to do something, you weren’t listening to Kadri.”

“Yeah, but--”

“I know it’s not your definition of normal but we can still have that,” Auston exclaimed, standing up so that he could kneel before Mitch, eyes wide and hopeful. “I love you. I know I say it all the time and it doesn’t mean the same for you but I can’t imagine you not being around. I want to protect you. I want to give you a good life.” He rested his chin on Mitch’s lap, inadvertently forcing Mitch to spread his legs to accommodate the man pushing for his affection.

Unsure of what to do with his hands, Mitch placed one on Auston’s head and pressed his hair down, as Auston would often do to Mitch when he was trying to be all lovey-dovey.

Mitch couldn’t find the words to argue with Auston, so he remained silent, patting Auston’s head to console him. He knew Auston’s devotion ran deep, but not that deep. He didn’t know how to react; for him it had always been just a friends with benefits kind of relationship that was nice on the side, but never permanent. He still didn’t know if he’d been sending the wrong signals or if Auston was just disillusioned, but the end result was the same. He was here now, and there was nothing he could do about it.

But the idea of being loved to that degree was also just as hard to swallow. Because while he’d never admit it to Auston, he craved the life he’d never had. Wanted to finish high school and get a good education. Become a successful employee and rise up the ranks, but not too high, and then have a nice family that didn’t resort to a life of crime.

Auston didn’t budge from his spot, even if his knees must have been killing him. He wrapped himself around Mitch’s legs and held on for dear life, pressing kisses through the baggy pants. It was starting to get unbearably cold, seeping into Mitch’s skin even through the thickness of the coat.

“Auston, um, thank you. For the chance, I mean. Can we go inside? I’m freezing.” That convinced Auston to look up, nose bright red. His eyelids were drooping but it looked intentional.

“You’re sure you want to go back in?” Auston asked, tracing a circle above Mitch’s knee.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, waiting to Auston to get up and off of him so he could stand.

Auston took his sweet time extending his legs and leaning forward on his elbows, rising to his full height in front of Mitch. He didn’t offer Mitch a hand but his eyes still asked, and Mitch answered by following the unspoken command and following Auston back inside, both beer cans in his hands.

From there, things got a little carried away. Alcohol flowing so freely through his system was a rarity, even on a good day. He hadn’t partaken in it for months, so after trying hard to warm up by chugging a whole can (and indulging in the pleasure he’d been denied since his capture) he felt pleasantly buzzed. Auston looked much of the same. Both of them were relaxing on the couch cushions, the television turned on and idly chatting in the background.

The channel was turned to the New York city broadcast, showing the millions of people clambering for a second on national television. Toronto felt like a rural city in comparison. The temperature only continued to drop, low below the negatives now, and the people slowly grew more restless as they waited. In an effort to get the blood pumping, the live bands being brought on stage were energetically jumping around the stage like unhinged monkeys.

It transitioned to a slow song, a cover of an older Elvis song by a singer that looked younger than the both of them but sounded twice as old. Auston hummed along for the first verse, then got up, putting his can down.

“Come on. Let’s dance.”

“Dance?” Mitch asked, confused, but too warm to really think about it. “Why would we dance?”

“It’s New Years?” Auston rolled his eyes. “I’ve never danced with you before. It’d be nice.”

“I’m not really a good dancer. I’d just look stupid,” Mitch said, not entirely lying. Dancing was always so awkward. You stepped on each other’s toes and rubbed up against one another. It was too close, _much_ too close.

Auston wasn’t fooled, pulling Mitch up by his arm and rearranging them away from the coffee table as Mitch’s protests fell on deaf ears.

“You just put your arms here,” he moved Mitch’s left arm over his shoulders, dropping one hand down Mitch’s back and interlinking their hands together, “and there we go. Just follow my lead.”

He stepped back and Mitch followed him, coordination sluggish with inexpertise. Auston took the lead in stride, hauling Mitch around the room, forcing him to keep up with his pace.

Eventually, even the energetic buzz was lost on Auston and both of his hands dropped to Mitch’s lower back as he slowed down. He glued Mitch to his chest, wedging his nose between Mitch’s neck and collarbone. The song drifted to a close, the crowd’s applause overpowering, but the two remained as they were, swaying gently.

It was so soft, all the sensations, the lulling voice. Mitch’s eyelids were yanking themselves down, content to just stay in the moment forever, Auston holding him there, safe.

“I’m happy you’re here,” Auston said eventually. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be before the new year.”

“Not even with your family?” Mitch asked.

“You _are_ my family. Which reminds me, wait here.”

His hands shot back, leaving Mitch wobbling in place. Forcing himself to sit down, Mitch watched Auston bank down the hall to their bedroom, the door shutting behind him with a click. As he waited, he watched the broadcast continue, a new stage presence captivating the audience. With only thirty minutes to go, it felt like the whole world was fixated in a euphoric barrage of the senses.

Auston returned with a clumsily wrapped box, crisscrossed with tape. The wrapping paper was bright and colourful, with patterns of stylized fir trees decking the surface in red and white bubbles. He held it out in front of him, waiting for Mitch to take it from his hands.

“What’s this?”

“I sort of held off on gift-giving because you looked so sad during the holidays, but I thought now would be a good time. Merry Christmas Mitch,” he said, placing the box down on Mitch’s lap. It fit snugly between both of his thighs.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have. I don’t--like, have anything for you.”

Auston brought a hand up to his mouth to hide his slowly growing smile, much to Mitch’s chagrin.

“I know, it’s alright.”

Mitch stripped away the wrapping paper, cautiously, like he was entertaining good company, and was met with a brown box. All he had to do was pick the top up and the box opened, revealing a stomach full of decorative tissue paper gushing out from around the corners. There was the indication of something beneath, and, after looking up at Auston for the go-ahead, peeled it away to reveal two smaller boxes.

“Sorry it’s a bit unreasonable, but I felt like the bigger box looked more appetizing.”

“I’m sorry, am I eating this?”

“You get what I mean, don’t be cheeky,” Auston said, with no heat behind his words. “Go on, open them.”

The first box that Mitch unearthed was smooth with a thin line jutting out at the midlength. He tore off the wafer-thin wrapping paper and found underneath was a black jewellery box intricately decorated with specs of gemstone. However, it was big enough to fit in the palm of his hand, so his initial worries of engagement or something cryptic settled in the back of his mind once more.

He opened the mouth of the box and was met with a simple, but stylized bracelet. The silver clasp was engraved around the body, clean enough to show the distorted reflection of Mitch’s face looking back at him.

“Wow,” Mitch said, not anticipating something subtle from Auston.

“I know, right? I got the matching one,” Auston said, yanking his sleeve up to expose his wrist. He laid it on Mitch’s lap beside him, pressing their skin together to show the similarities. Automatically, Mitch turned his hand over and stroked the accompanying leather bracelet on Auston’s arm, documenting the grooves and widgets to memory.

“It’s beautiful,” Mitch said. “They both are. Thank you.” Auston beamed, pushing the remaining box towards him with his bracelet hand.

“Don’t forget about that one.” Mitch shucked the wrapping paper away, holding the box in the palm of his hand. The white box gave no clues whatsoever as to what it housed, and Auston wasn’t saying anything.

When Mitch pulled the top away, he nearly dropped the box on the couch cushion he was leaning against. Inside was the screen of a phone, polished until it quite nearly sparkled. It wasn’t anything he could have possibly afforded even when he was affiliated with the local gangs, and just holding it made him feel inadequate.

He only realized his jaw had dropped when Auston reached over and closed his mouth, stroking the back of his fingers across Mitch’s cheek affectionately. The touch was molten hot, burning away Mitch’s resistance the longer it lingered.

“Do you like it?” Auston asked.

“I--I honestly don’t know what to say,” Mitch replied, still looking at the phone. He heard Auston laugh under his breath and move to sit beside him, placing his larger hand on top of Mitch’s.

“Say you like it,” Auston said.

“I like it. It’s--wow. And I can use it?” His fingers danced up and down the naked phone, pulling it out of its styrofoam crib so that he could hold it in his hand. The frame was bulky, the back a smooth plane with a logo embedded. It shone with integrity in the metal skeleton, made with a kind of love his belongings had never known.

“Yes, that’s why I bought it for you,” Auston said. “Of course, there’s certain restrictions, but we’ll go over those tomorrow. I just wanted to give it to you now.”

Mitch thumbed the smoothed corners, flipping it over and running his hands up and down to get used to the texture of it. The metal endoskeleton was rapidly heating up from his hands embracing it, and the warmth pooled in the tips of his fingers.

There was only one problem: in the back of his mind the image of his old phone was placing itself in his hand to overtake the new one. Sure, the screen was cracked and the rubber phone case tattered, but it had been the first phone he could afford and he cherished it. He hadn’t seen it since his encounter with Kadri.

He should’ve been rejoicing at the gift, throwing his arms around Auston’s neck and kissing him on the cheeks to express his gratitude. But instead, he was looking up at Auston with speculation entwined in his eyelashes, a web of interrogation he wanted to ensnare Auston with.

“What about my old phone?” he said, but Auston made no visible reaction besides yawning into his sleeve, shooting Mitch a lazy look.

“What about it?” he said, nonchalant.

“Am I going to get it back?”

“Why would you want it? You have this one, it’s better.” Auston tapped at the screen, diverting Mitch’s attention back to it.

“It’s just, my old phone was really special. And it had my brother’s number. I need to transfer it over.” He felt embarrassed to admit he didn’t have the number memorized. He needed it there, in front of him, in order to remember.

Auston laughed into his neck, pulling his head back to toy with a lock of Mitch’s hair.

“I already did that, you’re fine. Stop worrying, I’ve done everything for you.” The hand squashed his hair down, like Auston was petting an animal. Mitch allowed it, if only because the touch was rhythmic, lulling him into a sense of security. Beside him, Auston leaned in, knocking their heads together with a deep sigh.

“This is nice,” Mitch admitted. He moved the box out of his lap, momentarily dislodging Auston so that he could place it and its contents on the coffee table. While leaned over, he grabbed the half-empty beer can and took a swing, just to feel the warmth creep down the back of his throat.

Auston pulled him back right after, looping his arms around Mitch’s waist.

“It is. I wish it could be like this forever,” Auston said, pressing his lips to Mitch’s cheek. “Just you and me.”

Pushing away his apprehension, Mitch let Auston crowd around him, pull him closer and trace the expanse of his skin with his mouth. Mitch, with nowhere else to go, let Auston kiss him. It felt a lot like their final kiss at the highway gas station, except how that one felt like a goodbye, this one felt like a beginning. A new life. He just wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing just yet.

His head felt a bit hazy from all the drinking, but it wasn’t enough to put him in a different state of mind. He knew he had the self-control to not sink into Auston’s lap like a bitch in heat but he did it regardless. A switch inside of him had turned on and was spurned by the affection he was receiving. Every intersection of skin that Auston touched invoked a growing sense of urgency and his hands were up and clawing the sides of Auston’s face before he could hold them back.

Thighs hugging Auston’s waist, Mitch could feel the heat crawl down towards his groin. His head tipped back, enough to bare his throat and give Auston the motivation to start nipping the skin directly underneath his chin. In response, Mitch’s spine straightened and his body slid forward, leaving his arms with nowhere to go. He settled for draping them over the back of the couch, armpits flush with the tips of Auston’s shoulders. Sweat was budding at the base of his neck, his sweatpants encapsulating every lick of warmth escaping from his pores in droves.

The room turned muggy; it felt like steam was floating off of them. If cold water was thrown on them, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Mitch’s cock was giving a few interested twitches as Auston’s hand fell more, creeping down his hips until they grabbed a handful of his ass through the pants and pushed him forward. Ensnared by Auston’s show of strength, it made the slow grind that was conceived as a direct result of Auston’s unabashed desire to bludgeon Mitch’s remaining brain cells.

He must have made some noise, something sultry and desperate, cocked with the sexual tension budding ever since he’d woken up grinding to the back of Auston’s boxers, looking for relief that had been unattainable in his weeks there. It incentivized Auston to grind his teeth into the meat of Mitch’s collarbone, neck bent at an uncomfortable angle as he fought to ensure his mouth stayed glued to Mitch.

Nails pressed into Mitch’s ass, pointed and delivering on the intent of their owner as they confined Mitch to the couch cushion and in Auston’s personal space. Bored with his neck, Auston parted with a suctioning noise, chasing Mitch’s mouth and biting at the plushness of the lips.

“C’mon Mitchy, c’mon.”

Mitch didn’t even know what he was c’moning at, but he could feel himself being nudged to the left, aligning his crotch with Auston’s thigh. The hosts on the television behind him were blended into a mish-mash of background noise, every ounce of energy directed at reading what Auston said, did, felt like. Mitch lowered himself down on Auston’s lap, pressed in until Mitch felt he might sink into the ground underneath them.

There was unused energy that had congregated inside of him for weeks being put to use, discharging in a flurry of movements and gnashing teeth. The floodgates opened, the concentrated, undiluted arousal pushing him to sink down on Auston’s knee, anchoring them together. Mitch’s hips lifted up, creating a momentary gap between them before he pressed inwards and back, instinctually chasing the burst of pleasure whenever they made contact.

Mitch’s hands kept sliding when he’d thrust forward, sending him sprawling out. He’d have to take a few precious seconds to realign himself and continue the tempo. Little grumbles kept escaping from Mitch’s throat; he pushed his body out just to feel Auston’s fingers flex and herd him close. It was hard to become fully immersed in the heat of the moment when he kept slipping and falling back, forced to rely on Auston’s grasp to keep him from tumbling forward.

“Hang on,” Auston grunted, removing an arm from Mitch’s cheek to brace his elbow against the couch’s arm. It made it easier for him to lift himself up and slide Mitch out from where he was perched on his knee.

Mitch could feel himself be lowered down, cradled by the give of the cushion.

Auston temporarily pulled away, taking his internal furnace with him. It was pathetic, but he could feel a wail coming on. His tongue pushed its way out of his mouth like some vapid attempt to give Auston a lure that would make him come back. His eyes were closed so he heard, but didn’t see, Auston’s amusement bubble up, breaching with a tiny laugh that felt secret, something only Mitch would hear. It was intoxicating, he wanted more, more, _more_.

Auston’s arms bracketed him in as he swung his legs over Mitch. The added weight crushed Mitch down, pressed the air out of him and left nothing behind. Auston’s thigh slipped back in, spreading Mitch’s legs apart to make room and further increasing the blistering heat choking the life out of Mitch.

Mitch wanted to pull his shirt over his head to make more room for Auston to swoop in, but even that was prohibited by the way Auston was caging him in. There was no room to move, speak, do anything but obey Auston’s twitching leg and ride the sensations. His breathing picked up, escaping in little gusts that Auston soaked up with eager noises. The world around them slowed to a crawl, but Mitch couldn’t-- _wouldn’t_ stop.

His grinding got sloppy, but he was hard in his sweats and Auston’s bulge only encouraged him to keep moving. Teeth grazed the shell of his ear, teasing, and Mitch whined when they fell to his earlobe and pinched the skin there. A tongue followed suit, soothing over the heat flashes with broad wet strokes. Overstimulated, MItch’s hips jerked up, stopping him mid-grind in a fight to run headfirst into a dopamine-regulated abyss.

Auston’s arms clamped in, holding Mitch in place. He could only move from the waist down and even then, it was limited. The television was screaming out for their attention in a flash of colours and noises evident over Auston’s shoulder, but within seconds Auston’s deliberately moved his head to block it.

“Don’t look at them, look at me,” he said, the low pitch resonating in the crypts of Mitch’s awareness.

It unlocked that familiar conversation, the demands Auston would give and Mitch would carry out back in the alleys of London or in the safety of Mitch’s old apartment. It wasn’t nostalgia but a distant cousin of it that threatened to overcome him there and set him off track, yearning for the simpler times when the only thing he could focus on was attaining that long awaited orgasm in the middle of pure pandemonium and desire.

Exhaustion was nipping at his heels back in the present but even factoring in the oppressive temperature and pace, Mitch couldn’t afford to slow down. About once every five grinds he would hit a spot that had his knees weak, eyes rolling into the back of his head. It would be gone on the next downward thrust, the finish ghosting him from where he couldn’t grab at it. He wanted to pour his frustrations into his work, but he was conflicted by the sheer weight of the moment; the power behind the feelings he was experiencing.

After being numb to the world for so long this was the first indication of being alive. He needed it, needed it like he needed air. Auston was legitimately bottling him up on a single couch cushion, forcing him to ride out an orgasm on his thigh and Mitch was licking the boots of freedom. Hands still trapped as his sides, he reciprocated Auston’s grunts with mewls, trying to draw him in and catch his lips.

A radical commotion sprung up in the background, impossible to miss. It was the countdown, wishing away the final seconds of the year in sporadic, confetti filled fanfare. Mitch was finally getting in the groove, his dick pulsing with activity. He was climbing that metaphorical edge, ready to dangle off the side and fall _down_. Sedate himself in a blanket of endorphins that successfully eradicated time and memory from him, if only for a few minutes.

Auston could probably hear the evidence of his end nearing; Mitch wouldn’t deny he had the habit of being loud. And Auston, more so than anyone else, could read the cues Mitch’s body would give: the twice-over twitch of his hips, his torso flexing inward, calves and feet numbing in rapid succession as all the blood raced to his groin and left him empty-headed. At that point, he was so far gone he would do almost anything and squealed when Auston’s hot breath washed over his ear.

“Not yet. You’re coming when it hits zero,” he said, leaving no room for argument.

Mitch’s body continued its motions nevertheless, denying the order for a few seconds of relief.

Grabbing Mitch’s right hand, Auston finally directed it to his own crotch, letting Mitch feel the evidence of his arousal. Auston forced Mitch to grind his palm inward, giving alternative purchase, and Mitch bowed immediately. His fingers spread out to grab the entire handful, alternating between pressing in and giving dirty little drags down to hopefully get Auston closer to their mutual end.

The timer counted down behind him. It made every movement all the more meaningful. He had to make the most of thirty seconds. Twenty seconds. He couldn’t stay in place by ten; his grip must have been almost painful on Auston as he ground on his thigh, already feeling a wet spot form on the front of his boxers from the precum leaking so shamelessly from his head.

Ten, nine. Mitch was there, oh God he was right there but he couldn’t. His body wound up and then let go, hips thrashing, thighs quivering. Eight, seven, six. Auston was panting into his ear, nails raking down Mitch’s bare arms, knocking away pillows, blankets, anything in their path. The frayed edges of the shirt were tugged up, trying to expose Mitch’s shoulders and alleviate the heat mongering. Five, four, three, two--

At one, he nearly passed out. It was an overabundance of pleasure after being denied it for so long. All the limitations he had set in place, the fear of surveillance, the crying urge to listen to Auston and make him happy were nothing in comparison to the wild run to reach that aggravating end, dangled out his reach for so long.

The people on the television were kissing, cheering, throwing their hats in the air and dancing like it wasn’t below freezing and they’d been standing in place for hours. The price of their happiness was all but worth it when they’d achieved their goal, and there was no better description for the height of their shared orgasm.

A wounded noise was torn from Auston but Mitch’s moan eclipsed it both in volume and emotion. For just a few moments, he was running free, on cloud nine, or some other stupid analogy. He could care less. It was something new in a world of schedules and alarm clocks. He clung to it with an iron grip, knowing fully well it was fleeting but still wanting to prolong his gratification.

Objectively, the new year started out with a damp spot in his underwear, his sweaty, disgusting kidnapper enprisoning him between his arms, and pins and needles keeping him from moving his legs. But for the first time in a long time, he discredited it. He thrived in the little kisses Auston gave him, the aftershocks of bliss lingering amid the sensitivity when he tried grinding out the remainder of the rush.

“Love you,” Auston said, breathily.

Mitch hummed an affirmative, still not confirming the suspicions of parasitic feelings changing his mindset, but not denying it either. He was simply existing. Existing in a reality where Auston Matthews loved him and he was finally okay with it.

 

**September 3, 2025**

The only time he’d ever held a gun after the incident was when he was cleaning them.

That’s where the afternoon took him; locked inside an old storage shed taking an oil-stained rag to jammed machine guns and silenced pistols. The summer heat was staggering in whenever someone left the screen door open, further subjecting them to the humidity frazzling their hair and sending them into a sweat-deep stupor.

The crate beside him only had a few rifles he’d wiped down completely. Unable to use water in view of the drought, he’d instead resorted to disinfectant and some cousin of hand sanitizer that was thrown at him when he got the assignment. The air stank of gasoline, like someone had left the car on, and he might be concerned had he not seen the huge supply trucks back into the holding area.

Someone swore behind him, a tiny clang ringing out beneath the grunts and jagged laughs. When he turned, he saw Naz with his knee held up to his chest, sneaker clutched in his hand. His face was a bright shade of red, but Mitch could tell it wasn’t just from the heat.

“Hey man,” Mitch said, putting the gun in his hand down.

“Hey Mitchy. Sorry, I just, uh, stubbed my toe on the oil canister.” Naz laughed, half to himself, but he looked like he was in severe pain.

Mitch patted the space behind him on the crate, watching Naz lumber over to his side and sit down.

“It happens. Do you want water or something? You look like you’re about to pass out.” Naz pressed a hand to his forehead, wiping away the sweat with a flick of his wrist.

Mitch leaned away, trying to preserve his integrity for personal hygiene.

“Nah, I’m good. Mind if we talk for a bit? I won’t take up too much of your time.”

Grateful for the excuse, Mitch put the rifle down, throwing the blotchy red rag on the top of the uncleaned pile. He turned to give Naz his full attention, watching as the man looked around, as if looking to find nearby witnesses. Mitch clenched his hands.

“Yeah. I didn’t do something wrong did I?”

Naz laughed, “No, not at all. It’s just--you gotta keep this on the down-low, okay? Our little secret?” Naz brought his legs up, leaning over like a schoolgirl about the share the details of her newfound crush. Mitch nodded to reassure him, rearranging himself to get into a more comfortable position. It seemed no matter where he turned though, the grooves from the crate’s surface would grind into his skin.

“Okay so, there’s been talk. Not great talk mind you, but stuff like, ‘oh if something happens today, where would we go’ kind of talk.”

Mitch tilted his head to the side. Naz tried to roll his hands to voice whatever was on his mind, but it remained too vague to answer directly.

“I don’t understand,” Mitch said.

“Look, it’s no secret that we’ve been bringing too much attention to ourselves lately. People are talking, and they think we might be a target of a raid soon. I was wondering if you had a place to go, in case something happened.” He looked genuinely fearful of the possibility, and while Mitch wouldn’t put it past him to be a bit paranoid, it painted an image of some very real problems. Now that he was finally getting his life on the track the last thing he needed was an all-out gang war that claimed more lives and dragged him kicking and screaming into illegal activity.

He turned his head to look down at his shoes, scratched up and muddy from walking around the base, where the soil was cracked and splashed with the sewer residue. It sprung and leaked from nearby buildings like clockwork, a garbage smell wafting from everything it touched.

“I mean, I’m alright pretty much anywhere. I can always go to Toronto if I need help.” Toronto didn’t sound that bad now that his records were cleared. He and Olivia could afford a tiny shoebox apartment. Sure, it would be hard for her to leave her parents behind, but they could make a new life for themselves, away from his past in London.

“Toronto? That’s oddly specific. Aren’t you afraid of being followed there?” Naz said, foot rolling a can back and forth to keep the jitters from overcoming him.

The nervous ticks that were once so uncommon among people his age were all the more prominent here, in the scrappy gang of shunned, unwanted nobodies. All the more reason to run before he too was corrupted.

“I have protection,” he said, not wanting to elaborate.

“Protection?” Naz tilted his head, as if he were an owl. “Since when?”

“Since I made a deal with someone, okay? All you need to know is I’m safe there. They wouldn’t try to touch me. Is that the answer you wanted?” He felt scrutinized, like Naz would uncover his whole affair with a few calculated jabs. No matter how much he tried to hide him, Auston had a habit of squirming his way into everyday conversation and old conflicts, and now he was putting him at risk of suspicion. It was bad. It wasn’t this way with Olivia.

“I mean, that’s good,” Naz mumbled, finally kicking the can as hard as he could, the tin lid shrieking as it rolled through the dirt tracked in from outside. “I’d miss you though, if you left. Hey, maybe I can come to Toronto too. I heard the gangs there pay way more than they do here, and for less work too.”

Mitch laughed, half to himself, imagining Naz rooming with him and Olivia. They’d have to do dishes every four hours, knowing how Naz could stress eat when work got too serious too quickly.

“I’m not staying in the criminal industry Naz,” he said. His confession was so nakedly traitorous it may as well have painted little targets all over him, one reserved for the back of his temple. To his surprise, Naz didn’t revile back in horror. His lip quivered.

“But, we’re so good together. You and me against the world, remember?” Naz reached over and patted the gun crate, forcing Mitch to look back at his handiwork.

“Don’t remind me.” Mitch cracked a smile, tinged with woe. “I’ll keep in touch. But you knew it was going to happen.”

“I guess. So what are you going to do now? Lots of possibilities in Toronto.” Mitch didn’t even have to think.

“I’m going to get a nice place with my girlfriend and live a normal life, that’s what. I mean, the future isn’t set in stone but I’m confident that we’re going to have a place and work.” He looked up. “I’d like a family.” Naz looked ready to object, but thought twice and bit back whatever retort he was going to spit, thankfully.

“Well, if you’re sure,” Naz said, words carefully paced. “Just be careful. People won’t like you turning your back on them.”

“People” being a placeholder for practically every person in the room with them. They’d both heard rumours about the repercussions of betraying the ink you wore and it never sounded like fun. It was the stitching keeping Mitch tied to his life before he’d witnessed the death that made it unravel at the seams.

“I know. It’s something I’m ready to deal with. I’m not a china doll, I can look after myself,” Mitch said, applying force to his words to hopefully make them seem truer A lot of people thought that because he never grew into what would be considered an average weight that he would break with a single touch.

“Just, sleep on it, okay? Think it over, don’t be impulsive. I--If by chance, humour me, that something goes wrong, you don’t want to be at the other end of the cutting block, so to speak.” Naz put his hand on Mitch’s shoulder, looking genuinely concerned. The odds of failure and retribution were high and they both knew it. That almost made the treachery worse; knowing the ramifications of turning your back and doing it anyway.

“I know the consequences of leaving. Death is just more preferable to living this kind of life. I know you don’t understand, but that’s how it has to be.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Whoever it is in Toronto that’s looking out for you, just, tell them I said thanks. You’re a good pal. I want you to be safe,” Naz said, eyes sparkling with untamed conviction.

There was something he was hiding, familiarly haunting his reply. Mitch wasn’t sure if he knew who or not but it was nearing the end of his term regardless.

“I will. He’s nice and I know him through work, so he’s not going to pull anything too shifty,” Mitch said. Auston would pull through on his deal and hopefully, that would cover him from the people in London crawling up from their tombs for revenge.

“Was it through the alliance?” Mitch nodded. “Ah. I met a lot of people through that funnel too. Could’ve called London a convention centre.” They shared a laugh at both the vision and partial truth of the statement. There’d been so many names tossed around those first few weeks that it was impossible to navigate the records. Back then it had been a blessing to have a big brother mob on the lookout but that once necessary brotherly instinct had slowly been grinding them into a flavourful pulp, to where simple deals set them back financially.

The moment was short-lived. Reality dulled the bright colours of the past, sending them somersaulting headfirst back into where they were; a dusty warehouse surrounded by a stockpile of illegal weapons.

“No kidding. Well, I’m gonna clean up and head on out. You stay safe you hear?” Mitch said.

Naz slapped his thighs, lips pursed. “I will. Same to you.” Naz saluted, then sauntered off in the direction of the pull-up door, where the trucks were backed in.

There was nothing tying Mitch down to the spot, besides his unfinished work, but it wasn’t like they had his tasks in writing. Someone would pick up where he left off and it would go unnoticed. People already looked the other way when he walked by.

Baking in his hoodie and jeans, he left the warehouse and walked in the shade of the crabapple trees decorating the chipped sidewalk. They were the only plants that actually grew on this side of the city, and it was painfully ironic that the fruit they bore was sour and worm infested. There was a metaphor in there somewhere. Despite the disgust of accidentally stepping on one and having the bottom of your shoe caked in brown mush, they were good landmarks to follow when you need to reach the bus station further downtown. Walking the sidewalk was like walking the red carpet home, every day a reminder that his days in the custody of the Knights was short-lived.

 

He and Chris hadn’t spoken since the incident but Mitch suspected that the higher-ups in London were giving him the cold shoulder because he gave up the only family he had left. Come to think of it, that might be why Naz had suspicions as to his contact in Toronto. It painted invalidated his case, knowing that the little wimpy kid kicked his injured brother out after sustaining multiple injuries protecting his territory for the good of the gang. For a brotherhood like the Knights, it was blasphemy.

Both were too prideful to own up to their mistakes, and it was the last straw for their relationship, which had been rocky for months every since Chris learned about Mitch’s unwillingness to go through with a cold-blooded murder. He didn’t relay the gruesome details to Olivia, but she eventually uncovered the fight alongside the grief of living in the conditions of the London scene.

They’d discussed it for two weeks, ironing out the details. Mitch had turned his apartment upside down, scouting for his belongings and disappearing just as quickly as he’d moved in, leaving a wad of cash inside the door with his keys for the landlord to find. An email was the only indication that it’d been entirely premeditated. The apartment was where he’d grown up after his mother and father had been kicked out of the family portrait and yet he’d felt nothing but gratitude at seeing the door lock behind him.

Now he lived with Olivia, a half an hour away from his troubles. He’d prefer it be farther, but voicing that would be a burden to Olivia, who’d moved out of her parent’s home to be with him. He had to be happy with what he had, and what he had was what he’d been wanting for years. That gave him no right to complain, and made his body burn with anticipation on the bus rides home.

The elevator never worked, but it helped him get exercise climbing up and down the stairs (usually with groceries, no less). He was almost dead to the world when he used his keychain to unlock their room, being welcomed with the scent of his girlfriend, probably the most soothing thing known to man. There was another smell, of grease. It sunk in the air, luring him further inside the complex as he kicked his shoes off.

Olivia was listening to music through earphones, the cords swinging back and forth as she pretended to play air guitar, shovelling fries into her mouth. The sink was half-way full with steaming bubbles, the pile of dishes neither of them had the initiative to clean finally appearing to have a dent made in it. On top of the island counter, near their two-person dining table, Mitch could see a large paper bag with two lidded drinking cups beside it, straws poking out of the holes.

He dropped his bag to the ground and went for the stealthy approach, sneaking up behind his blissfully unaware girlfriend and then springing on her when she went to reach for another dish. She squealed, kicking her legs up as he playfully growled, lifting her a few inches off the ground. It was music to his ears; the sound was unrivalled by anything else. He’d said it a million times but he loved his girlfriend.

“Mitchy! Stop!” she wheezed out, attacked with laughter. “You know I’m ticklish!”

“I know, that’s why I’m doing it,” he chuckled. He gave her a kiss on the cheek for good measure, letting her down. She lightly slapped his arm in retribution.

“Got you food.” She pointed at the take out on the table. Without asking, Mitch’s stomach growled, furthering Olivia's fluttery smile. “I knew you’d be hungry after today. You always are after work.” Right. There was still that misaligned trust, that secret he’d always withheld.

Could you imagine finding out your significant other was in a gang and worked with rifles? Mitch couldn’t. Didn’t want Olivia to. It was easier this way. He was doing it to protect her, and when he talked about finding work in Toronto, hopefully she would say yes and they’d elope off into the skyline with their eyes aligned towards the future.

He saved himself the embarrassment of trying to explain what fake task he’d been put up to today and reached into the paper bag to grab the burger wrapped in tinfoil. When he’d unwrapped it, the condiments were the same, cheese and ketchup, what he liked. He’d never actually told Olivia he liked it but she’d seen him order it enough times to come to the conclusion that it was his condiment preference. She was so detail oriented that the little things were what brought them together, like her knowing he would be tired and getting food and then waiting for him before she ate. He’d have to vacuum the carpets to sufficiently thank her.

Music still blaring through her earphones, Olivia's body was still moving on rhythm, hips rocking back and forth to fit with the tempo of the beat. Combined with a burger in her hand and a mouthful of fries it was laughable that her face looked so serious, but at the same time she looked so beautiful Mitch couldn’t put a name to it. At one point she blurted out a loud noise, yanking the cords to the wires out of the phone socket.

Without earphones to channel the sound too, open music flooded the room. It was a slow, dragging melody that Olivia swaying to, face relaxed in a show of complete abandon. Mitch watched her for a few seconds, taking a bite to quell the hunger still squawking away in the deep recess of his digestive system. It was almost seductive, watching Olivia step back and forth, arms crossed over her chest.

“You having fun there?” he said, and was hushed immediately.

“Oh shush. This was the song that played during my prom. I still remember it.” Mitch took another bite, then abandoned his meal in favour of approaching Olivia and pulling her arms away. Her eyes flashed open, but she’d lost the indignant air and shifted her hips to make room for him. Suppressing a laugh, Mitch hunched over to tuck her arms over his neck and swayed her off of her feet, letting the music encapture them in a completely different reality.

They were young, and the possibilities were endless. Were they moving fast? Maybe. But maybe it was destined to be. There was no one else he’d rather be with, and he’d suffer through months of ketchup-stained t-shirts and wrinkled jeans to always have one hand reaching out to protect her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains frottage (with partial orgasm denial) and some emotional manipulation. Please ask if you need anything tagged.


	5. January 20, 2026

**January 20, 2026**

Mitch’s life soon succumbed to the monotony of imprisonment, hours upon hours wasted on just watching cars crawl up and down the streets from his rooftop perch. There were only so many university textbooks and handouts he could read before he could feel a migraine coming on from behind his left eye.

Auston’s routine became the only semblance of normalcy, and in the few hours Mitch got in his company he tried his best to remain awake. Hearing Auston’s deep voice talking on the phone or walking into the living room and seeing him lounging on a couch was enough stimulation to keep Mitch from devolving into madness.

It got worse; it became a necessity that he was around Auston. Now, he woke up with the express purpose of making sure Auston couldn’t leave before he saw him. Breakfast had become his alarm clock; if Auston left for work before Mitch was awake he wouldn’t eat until dinner. The controlled feeding times edited his internal clock’s running times.

That day though, his skin had itched all night and he’d had to leave the bed to run cold water over his hands to stop them from shaking. The instigator? Auston wasn’t there when he woke up. And it was six in the morning. Mitch woke up at six. Auston always woke up at six.

Blanket wrapped around his shoulders, Mitch left the bedroom adorning only his boxers, checking to see if Auston was in the kitchen making coffee. It too, was achingly empty. None of the lights were on, and the elevator wasn’t in use yet. The rumbling that came whenever it was escorting people up and down the building was but a ghost.

It wasn’t rare for him to fall asleep before Auston, or for Auston to have a late night at the office and come home without making dinner for either of them. It just meant a bigger breakfast in the morning. But there was nothing there, the living room looking distinctly like it hadn’t been lived in for months. There were no scattered papers, no highlighters strewn about, and Mitch couldn’t see Auston’s briefcase anywhere.

So he did the only thing he could think of and stayed up, curled around one of the couch’s throw pillows anxiously watching the elevator from across the room. He could vaguely remember memorizing the patterns of the floor rug in an effort to keep himself concerned with something other than the man’s presence but failing miserably. Too tired to remain alert but too tense to fall asleep, he was caught in a perpetual cycle of torment that coursed through his body without remorse.

The last memory with Auston had been the sky, flourishing with a green overtone from the TD bank branches populating the main roads, as he swore he could see the sky glimmering (although it was probably his own delusions; the possibility he could remember a moment with his captor fondly made his heart plummet). It had been morning, they’d been on this couch as they waited for their eggs to boil. It represented everything domestic about Auston that had blossomed since the new year.

Mitch’s stomach grumbled, furious at receiving no food for almost twenty-four hours. The lingering bite of it stung deep inside his groin, further prompting his discomfort as he worked to take his mind off of his physical needs. Eventually though, his restraint died with a feeble cry, prompting him to trudge up close to the fridge to distract himself, his sweatpant’s cuffs dragging behind him. To his surprise, when he walked over to examine the stainless steel doors, the padlock was not there. He could open it without any alarms going on and, like magic, there was food stocked inside.

Knowing he wasn’t going to go hungry until dinner made dealing with Auston’s disappearance much easier to bear. This was independence. He didn’t have to rely on Auston anymore for his basic necessities.

Most of the cabinets were unlocked too, continuing the trend of anomaly. Mitch took the liberty of expressing his newfound freedom with two slices of buttered toast and a glass of orange juice. He turned a couple lights on too just for the heck of it, because it was so depressing in the morning without Auston moaning and groaning at the effort it took to simply walk to the bathroom door.

He kept himself busy with the books, steadily munching down on the supply of food. He didn’t touch anything important but did burrow his way into the indulgent food, the ones full of calories that kept both his head and stomach satisfied. He hoped it wasn’t the food Auston planned on cooking, but then again, what would he be doing with potato chips and goat cheese in the first place?

Hours passed. He continued to read, memorizing the analogies and equations until his head spun. He slept on the couch, always in sight of the elevators, counting down the hours until Auston would be home and would keep him entertained. The remaining pages of the notebook he’d previously owned was full of scribbles by the end of the day, when the sunset cloaked the building in a golden aura.

While he’d originally wanted to wait for Auston so they could eat together, it was starting to look more and more like a late night. Not that he wanted to be kind to a psychotic ex-lover, but making extra portions was no trouble and he was starting to get hungry. Dinner rolled by without much fanfare, a lone sandwich sitting on the stool beside Mitch on the island counter, untouched. He ended up having to wrap it in foil and store it away, his lungs feeling as though they’d be ruptured.

He had a feeling something was wrong. Auston wouldn’t have forgotten about him, would he?

The bedroom was completely dark when he entered. He settled on his side with a fresh set of pyjamas on and scrubbed his stubbled face clean, not bogged down by a weight beside him. That was wrong. His face felt scratchy from not having access to a razor without Auston and worse, there was a sexual uncurrent reoccuring from their repeated encounters that month. It became almost customary to fall asleep after a bout of grinding, if only because it wore Mitch out enough to shut up the thoughts coursing through his head.

His body anticipated the friction of Auston’s hips, followed by the hands that would encircle his waist and hold him down. Without it, there was no undertow pulling him down and keeping his head underneath the water. His bones were liquidated; they wouldn’t move.

He was half hard when his hand finally slipped down his boxers, hoping to bring an end to the pulsing throb underneath his skin. The relief was momentary; it burned at first, but maybe that was because his hand was dry. He gave himself a few strokes, trying to start a rhythm but nothing felt _right_. Right was a solid weight behind him, holding him down. He needed it.

Still, he persisted. His breathing tumbled out faster, harsher. He could hear it echo around the bed, the walls soaking it in. His hand moved faster, hand closing around the base and pushing up, trying to work his way up to a comfortable motion that would bring him the relief he wanted. His hips thrust up, chasing the feeling.  

He was only able to coerce a release by imagining he was waking up and finding himself cocooned by the blankets with Auston’s soft snores washing over the back of his neck. It would be hot and stuffy, the arm thrown over his hip bone too big and noticeable to let him sleep, but it would keep him from asking too many questions come sunrise and tamp down on the anxiety brewing inside of him.

The orgasm was satisfactory at best, but it brought him sleep.

But the next morning was much of the same. There was no denying that Auston hadn’t come home that night either; the bedsheets were undisturbed and the pillow cold without any impression of a head laying there. The living room was as Mitch had left it, bathroom spotless. It was the epitome of beauty in a luxury estate on top of a growing city, but Mitch felt like he was going mad with it. Overexposure had turned the extravagant architecture into a maze of tedium, the pure walls closing in on Mitch.

There was too much white, too much tile. He wanted to dig it up until his fingernails chipped and cracked and eventually bled, and then keep digging. He wanted to smash the mirror in Auston’s bedroom like he’d been tempted to on his first day and leave it there for the glass to take root in the carpet. He wanted to pull on the strings belonging to some of the patterned rugs until they were unspooled and tangled in a pile of yarn he could chuck out the window.

He settled for sitting down, sipping water from a coffee mug left in one of the numerous kitchen cabinets. He forced himself to do the dishes, turning the temperature of the tap water to a scalding heat that seared his hands when he plunged them into the cage of suds and swirling dish soap residue. Later, he used the broom from the supply closet to sweep up the crumbs that had fallen when he’d opened the bag of because it felt absolutely despicable under his bare feet.

He wanted to call Auston, just to hear his voice. He could only use his phone when Auston was nearby though, and he had no idea where Auston hid it when he was restricted access. He tried some of the cabinets and rooms that had been locked since his arrival, hoping he’d catch a stroke of luck and uncover something, but besides for a few of Auston’s dresser drawers, walk-in closet, and spare bathroom, the rest was the same. The patio door laughed at him from its lofty throne, taunting him with the freedom he’d been allowed to taste, but never swallow.

Household chores kept the boredom from setting in and filled the hole that books couldn’t. He swapped Auston’s novels for a dishcloth and wiped the counters until they sparkled. Then he folded and refolded his clothes, arranging them until not one oversized shirt had a crease. He did the same for Auston’s, taking a second to admire a hoodie in the right drawer that was so unbecoming of a mob boss he couldn’t help but take it out from the drawer and shrug it on.

It hugged him in all the right places and was achingly soft. It smelled like Auston’s cologne too, clinging to Mitch’s scalp as he tugged it down. It had to have been worn recently, but Mitch had never seen it on. Refusing to think about such an enigma, he settled back down on the couch cushion, sprawled on his stomach as he counted up to ten and then back down. He counted every mole on his arms and legs, toying with the waistband of the sweatpants and tying its strings into a bow when he ran out of body imperfections to catalogue.

And then he heard the elevator.

It was a simple little chime, but he hadn’t heard it in days. It reverberated around the room like an air siren, sending Mitch upright in a second’s notice.

And there he was. Auston was walking out of the doors, nothing in hand, suit groomed and intricate always, and no betrayal of emotion on his face.

“Auston!” he said, jumping the couch, missing the landing, and then getting back to his feet so that he could run at him.

Auston looked like he was bracing a hit, like maybe Mitch was going to charge him in some kamikaze-like attack, which made the hug that followed stiff. Unconsciously, Mitch’s hand moved to intertwine its fingers with Auston’s, squeezing just to feel the press of skin return his affection with a grounding presence. Any defiance in him withered away shortly, extinguished by a thankfulness that Auston was back and alive.

“Hey there, Mitchy,” Auston said, humour sprinkled into his voice.

“I thought you were in trouble,” Mitch said, struggling to convey the utter terror that had consumed him for the past forty-eight hours. “I thought you were never going to come back and leave me here alone.”

“I was at a work conference in Montreal,” Auston said plainly, finally reciprocating the hug by encircling his arms around Mitch’s neck, petting down his hair. “I thought I left a note on the fridge telling you that.”

“You didn’t. You asshole, you didn’t,” Mitch said, voice cracking, overcome with the distraught of thinking he was completely and utterly abandoned. That he was going to wake up every day and be faced with the same old books and trinkets, watching his food supply slowly run out, cry himself to sleep in an empty bedroom where no one could or ever would hear him. He wondered if anyone would even care. Would they even know he was gone?

Auston hushed him, but Mitch couldn’t take his sweet-talking right now.

“I’m fine,” Mitch insisted, but tucked his head in the space between Auston’s head and shoulder. He could smell that familiar cologne coming off of Auston in waves, enough to make his eyes water, but couldn’t take distancing himself from the warmth. His hand rubbed against Auston’s bicep, feeling his diaphragm expand and contract with each breath through where his thumb was pressing into his ribcage. In response, Auston hummed, but did not move beyond holding Mitch in place.

That hit a nerve. Auston didn’t look nor sound interested in him. Was he losing interest? Was he going to leave him again, is that why he disappeared? To get away from Mitch? He wouldn’t try to say that he’d been good company. He’d been awful. He’d deprived Auston of any kindness and gone so far as to attack him with a knife. His insides twisted into a game of cat's cradle.

He didn’t have anything, just himself, left to sell.

Summoning a bout of courage he didn’t recall having, he extended his arm across Auston’s torso to grip his chin and turn it back towards him. Adrenaline pulsed through him in reply, anticipation brimming on the tip of his tongue when their eyes met. His innate desire to touch was to blame, he needed the intimacy, wanted to talk casual and not fall victim to the uniform of his life up until that point.

Leaning in, he brushed their lips together, once, just to determine what Auston’s reaction would be. Their breath mingled, the heated temperature making Mitch’s hair stand on end. Finally, Auston was moving, pressing their lips together as he slid a hand up Mitch’s back to hold his neck in place. With that, he tilted Mitch’s head for a better angle, rearranging his body by kicking his legs apart and pressing a thigh up until Mitch sighed into his mouth.

It was like starting a car engine, once Auston got going he didn’t stop. He stole away any opportunity for breath and pressed tiny pecks to Mitch’s bottom lip, his nose, his eyelid even. The hand around the back of Mitch’s neck tightened and forced him to slide forward, pressing their chests together without any concern for personal space. It was scorching hot, but whenever Mitch tried to convey this, either through displeased moans or words, Auston would swallow them with his mouth.

Auston started making dirty little bucks upwards with his leg, drawing out whimpers from Mitch, who had only wanted a couple kisses. Unused adrenaline combined with his hormonal level following the incident made each grind almost painful to experience, and lack of oxygen only exaggerated the problems. Finally, it became overwhelming and his hands shot up to press at Auston’s chest, Mitch groaning into his mouth as his head swam. Thankfully, not long after Auston relented his tightly-wound control, letting Mitch pull back but not leave his arms. He sat back, dishevelled, watching Mitch with undisguised arousal.

He gave Mitch a moment to regain control over his breathing and beating heart, stroking a hand up and down his neck. His nails kept nicking where his pulse was pumping in his jaw, the bluntness making him flinch. It felt too difficult to breathe.

Auston leaned in again and Mitch shook his head, unwilling to compromise his air again. Surprisingly, Auston didn’t pressure him to kiss again, and dropped his head down. Mitch was confused, until the wet press of a tongue shocked him into submission. He stuttered, calves squeezing as he fought the rippling sensations. The humming close to his Adam’s apple made his fingers curling into the fabric of Auston’s shirt out of reflex.

“I knew you’d come around.” Auston scraped his tongue against the skin, sucking until Mitch keened. “You’re so beautiful like this.” Beyond making noises, he had no energy to participate, standing still like he was in a wax museum as Auston marked up his throat. There, the pulsing push and pull combined with the warmth filled him with the piece he’d been missing up until then. The hole he’d been trying to fill was whole again.

The unresolved tension was coming back to haunt Mitch. His eyelids were yanking down whenever he tried to get a sense of his surroundings, but sleep evaded him. Fears of abandonment and mistreatment at the hands of a stranger slapped Mitch in the face, jerking him back to awareness with no mercy. As with most things involving Auston these days, he was shocked to find a trail of _want_ and _need_ scattered among the ingredients of his mind.

He associated Auston not just with food and hygiene, but love and attention. If Auston was gone who would read to him, trim his nails, hold him when he woke up shivering and afraid? Two days had been hell and it wasn’t solely allocated to the idea of Auston leaving without warning. Just the thought of him not being around was terrifying because as it stood; Auston was the only way to breach the barrier between himself and the outside world.

Mitch made the split-second decision to unfurl his body like an accordion and stroke his hands up the expanse of Auston’s back. Trying to coax him back was easier said than done; besides a sigh Auston didn’t respond to many of his ministrations. Mitch tried tracing his name up the ragged outline of Auston’s spine, moving his finger in a zig-zag pattern down until he reached outside seam of the man’s dress pants.

It worked, if only a little bit. Auston tried and failed to bite back a laugh. He turned over to look Mitch in the eye, a smile gracing his face.

“What’cha doing there Mouse?” he said, voice deep with what sounded like sleep. His hair was tousled and uncombed but even still he embodied the charm and charisma of a man twice his age. Mitch didn’t respond verbally, instead choosing to lean in and press a small kiss to Auston’s left cheek, the one not pressed into the pillow. He was mindful of his morning breath; Auston always hated it.

“I love you too,” Auston replied, cupping Mitch’s chin and pushing his head up until he had a clear vantage point to kiss at. The mouthing against his throat would scare him on a good day, but that morning he’d experienced some paradigm shift. Everything was backwards. He wanted his kidnapper to embrace him, tie him down and spend hours cataloguing the moles speckling his skin. At least then he couldn’t leave.

Is this what Auston thought like? The thoughts were crusted with impure, degrading ideas and opinions that spiralled out of control. He was losing it, and yet, he craved it. He wanted to magnify the sensation of Auston marking up his skin until he shook with it.

“Mitch--“ He should stop. It was too much. Auston was satisfied with the kissing. Oddly enough, it was Mitch that didn’t have enough. He was on the cusp of satisfaction but not quite there. He needed something more.

The kissing escalated into touching, then into a slow grind. He felt filthy, but couldn’t stop propelling his hips forward to chase the euphoric feeling. It couldn’t compare to any experiences he’d had with his own hand. Having another warm body beneath him, someone solid and breathing, only intensified the pleasure.

“Mouse--ah, one second.” But one second felt like _too_ long. He backed Auston into the couch, the same one they’d shared during new years. The television was off, the blinds pulled down so that the room was exclusive to them. There was a dark vignette keeping anything out of Mitch’s direct line of sight as a jumble of dark shapes.

Mitch left a trail of kisses down Auston’s stomach, all of them pressing into his shirt with the intent behind it real as anything. His hands fell down Auston’s chest to his groin, thumbs pressing inwards as he worked the skin. There was an unspoken voice in his head goading him on, erasing the malice-stained insults hurled for getting so close to Auston, his captor of all people, and further pushing him to act.

He pulled Auston’s shirt out from where it was tucked into his pants; skimmed the skin of Auston’s stomach and adhered to the hand tilted his head up gently.

“It’s not enough,” Mitch found himself repeating, staring Auston dead in the eye. “It’s not enough.”

Auston’s fingers carded through Mitch’s hair, the ghost of a smile colouring his face. “What’s not enough baby? Talk to me.”

“I need more. I need you.” Mitch thrust his hips forward for added emphasis. He expected Auston would be pleased, that a hand would make its way down his back and hold him by the hoodie’s slack. That Auston would yank it up over his head, grope at Mitch’s hips and ass and pull him up onto his lap, beginning the accustomed grind they would both orgasm too.

But Auston did none of that. He looked like the cat that swallowed the canary. Mitch would be insulted by the blatant smirk aimed at him if he wasn’t practically quavering with want.

“I love you Mitchy, but I think you’re moving a little too fast.” Auston was lifting him up, but not to hold him, _love_ him. At least, not in the way he wanted. This was a casual, family kind of love. The nurturing boost necessary to sway a loved one off to bed and tuck them in. The kissing of each cheek.

Their dynamics had been traded. Mitch couldn’t say if he was possessed or just turned fucking insane by tedium, but like a drug addict he coveted the proverbial high he got from being with Auston. It was the only cure to the fervor that was chipping away at his sensibility.

“No!” he gasped. “Please--let me.” He would _make_ Auston stay. His hands fiddled with Auston’s silver belt and were met with a growl from above, two larger hands stalking his movement for movement until they closed in and pulled the belt out from the loops and started on the fly. It was progress, sweet, sweet progress.

In less than two minutes he had a hand around the base of Auston’s cock, another stroking a straight line from the groin to the tip. Auston’s head was toppled back, body sprawled out on the couch and mouth wide open. His hips jutted forward upon feeling Mitch’s exhales caress the sensitive skin of his arousal.

Heat was building once again, but it was a good, endearing kind of heat. Under its influence Mitch opened his lips wide and let the first inch sink in, hollowing out his cheeks to increase the friction. Both of Auston’s hands linked behind his head and kneaded the hair they found, pulling outwards when Mitch fed more inside, the weight heavy on the back of his tongue.

He was out of practice without a doubt. His lips already felt swollen, eyes watering as his gag reflex gave a warning pulse. It was dry and scratchy where the hoodie sat and his neck hurt from the continuous strain he was putting on it. By all accounts it should have been miserable, made worse by Auston deciding to make little thrusts before Mitch was comfortable. He didn’t tap the edge of Auston’s thigh to signify he should slow down though, nor pull off. He maintained the pace he was working at and bobbed his head back and forth until Auston’s vocabulary was reduced to vowels.

Auston climaxed when Mitch was taking a deep breath through his nose, surprising him. The only reason Mitch managed to stay put was that Auston’s hands were intertwined with the strands of his hair and holding on for dear life. Mitch’s tastebuds picked up on the salty flavour and softening give of Auston’s cock as the sensation feebly drained, but let Auston enjoy the remaining ecstasy of the afterglow by staying deadly still.

Claustrophobia was not a hallucination; his brain was beginning to pick up on the suffocating closeness of Auston. In his mouth, gripping his skull, caging him in with his thighs. He didn’t even orgasm, but tuned in to Auston’s heaving gasps, the roughness of his inhales as he tried to recover from the experience.

It was spiritual, other-worldly. Auston eventually stopped reclining back and looked down at Mitch with all the love in the world present in his eyes. The night faded out from memory then.

He wasn’t prepared the next morning, to wake up in bed with bruises covering his chest. The extent of the damage wasn’t recognizable until he walked around to the stand-up mirror in the corner of the room, and saw the way his neck had been ravaged. A blotched canvas of red, blue, and black stretched out for what felt like miles. Some moved past his collarbone and towards his pectoral muscles. Auston had clearly marked his territory.

When he walked into the kitchen Auston was smiling, a pair of headphones looped around his neck and resting against his bare chest. He had a few red scratches moving from his pectorals to wrap his neck in a choking motion. It looked like it would sting, and coupled with the small nick in his shoulder from the stab wound, which looked as though it would never heal properly, it made Auston look savage. It paled in comparison to the bruises peppering Mitch’s torso and neck though.

He thought Auston would try to justify what he’d done, or make some saucy comment. He didn’t, answering the sound of the toaster popping up with one hand, removing four slices of toasted bread.

They ended up curled up on the couch together, with a plate of toast on the ottoman and their feet folded underneath them. Auston’s hand rubbed the marks he’d left on Mitch, a satisfied rumble coming from deep inside his throat. Mitch didn’t have the heart, or will, to question it, and poured his focus into the bright, pretty visuals and abstract sound he’d been so devoid of up until that point.

 

**August 18, 2025**

The grocery store functioned almost automatically, only needing to be periodically maintained out in the freezer and back rooms.

It was a cozy little place that had taken up the lot of a former Blockbuster that was going to be demolished, and as such the structure and shelves along the walls were eerily familiar. Some days, Mitch came into work and smelled popcorn kernels in the milk aisle, nostalgia paving the tiled floors with carpet.

He credited Olivia for the exotic visions of a small mall opening up in the area and gradually over time becoming more devoid of people, the locales going out of business or moving and leaving behind the skeleton that the community used to rebuild and become stronger than ever before. She had touched his chest as she explained it, looking him in the eyes as if to signal the extended metaphor. He’d kissed her hands then and there, hoping it could convey the gratitude pulsing through his arteries at the thought of a real second chance.

It didn’t make life easier automatically though. London was expanding, but the local crime syndicates were on the defensive, members dropping like flies. There was an unspoken agreement that a foreign mob was on the rise, and fully intending to make use of their alliance with the Leafs, the Knights called in back up.

It made everything, even taking the bus every morning, a game of Russian Roulette. The odd time Mitch would find himself ordering a coffee or picking up bare essentials from the drug mart and see the striking shades of navy blue accompanied by swirling maple leaves on the arm or back of a customer in front of him. Chris was right about one thing: living as a defector came at the consequence of his physiological sanity. He could never unsee the indicators of the underground nor interact with the people around him without fear of being attacked for his disloyalty.

It had him wishing he could bite his nails, but he staved off the urge by pouring himself into his work. As he’d soon find out though, even that wouldn’t suffice as an out.

It all came to head the day he was loading the freezer with corn. The bell on the front doors rang, signalling customers. Olivia, who was working the register, greeted them with a peppy welcome. Mitch was moving the bags around, trying to make room for one more bag that was being particularly troublesome, when the voices behind him dropped the facade of normalcy. The scuffle prompted the back doors to open, and that’s when Mitch dared to look over the aisle and see three woman surrounding the counter, all dresses in gloomy shades of grey and black.

Seeing unbridled fear on Olivia's face prompted action, but before he could even interrupt her father was there, pushing the closest woman back with one hand. The change in position revealed a tattoo running up the woman’s elbow to her collarbone, achingly blue. It stopped Mitch dead in his tracks.

He ducked back behind the counter, willing his breathing to quiet down. He could hear Olivia's father discussing matters under his breath, voice full of disdain. He willed himself the courage to walk around and join them, hoping that the added numbers would intimidate them into leaving. Two of the women gave him long, lasting looks. It sent a tidal wave of paranoia sucking him deeper into his own snowballing persecution complex.

The obvious leader gave all three of them an individual look, then walked out, her goons following. She must have just finished speaking when Mitch walked around. The doors swung ominously behind them, clipping some of the displays with the force of being thrown back. Olivia looked noticeably high-strung, mouth pinched in an uneasy frown.

Olivia was shaking. “What was that?” Her nails were clacking against the counter.

“Some punks running their mouth,” her father said, walking around and kicking his foot against the door until it bounced in its frame’s socket. Mitch’s throat felt dry. He thought back to all the times they had been harassing people in a group; how it’d been easy to block it out because he was at the back of the group and the pack mentality was so powerful. It was like holding the gun with your finger on the trigger and pointing it at anyone in your path, unchallenged.

Now on the opposite end of the spectrum, the deep-rooted terror was pulling him in every different direction. The blood pumping through his ears was so loud that Olivia's voice had been reduced to a muffle. He was only able to understand what she was saying because he was following the movement of her lips.

“Dad? Are we going to be okay?” Olivia said, frantically.

Mitch had to sit down. He pulled over the plastic chair behind the register and held his head in his hands. He was waiting for the truth to coax itself from his mouth. He knew in a couple minutes the two of them would be looking at him like he was some sewer cretin. Olivia was clearly terrified, but all he could think of doing in the moment was holding onto the sound of her voice while he still could.

“Mitch? Are you okay?" Olivia asked. Still rigid in terror, she stumbled over to where he sat and kneeled beside him.

Truths came bubbling up like molten lava in a volcano and yet, there was some verbal blockage that plugged his mouth shut. He waited until she'd retrieved a bottle of water and chugged half of it back before he became capable of parroting something back.

“My--my family. We were targeted too, back in Toronto. It just came back to me.” Dragging a hand down his face, Olivia's father leaned back against the counter, patting his hand against the register with more force than necessary.

“We’ll talk about this with your mother Olivia. Just work as usual.” He departed through the back doors, intending to return to where they’d just gotten a new shipment of goods. He left behind a counter scattered with objects and clutter, and two young adults standing fearful for their lives.

“I thought they were going to shoot me,” Olivia stuttered. Mitch could see she was still shaking and his heart swooped.

He rushed to reassure her. “They wouldn’t. It’d be too risky.” She turned to look him in the eye.

“Is this what it was like for you? Weren’t you only a child when you were in Toronto? God, that must have been horrible. I’m so sorry that happened to you.” Mitch’s mouth felt dry. He swallowed twice to relieve it.

Mitch stepped forward. “And now it’s happening to you. I wish I could say something. I wish, like, I could protect you,” he said. Olivia shook her head, kicking at nothing with her foot.

“They’re criminals Mitch. They don’t care. I’m just sorry you had to experience it again.” At the mention of criminals, it felt like his tongue was stabbed. It flailed in his mouth, head pulsing.

The crack in his foundation was growing into a hole. Feelings, untold information was gushing out. Before, he’d do anything to keep Olivia from knowing about his criminal past but at that very moment it felt like it was coming up. Like word vomit. He needed the toxin _out_.

He took both of her hands in his and braced himself with one, deep breath. “There’s more to the story. I- Olivia, there’s something I haven’t told you yet because it’s dangerous, and I wasn’t sure how you’d respond.”

“Yes?” She looked like a gazelle, ready to bolt at the first indication of danger.

“And I hope that after this you won’t look at me any differently. It’s in the past, I’ve changed.”

“Mitch.”

“I used to be in a gang, Olivia.” She stepped away, eyes wide. “I know. It was because we were in poverty and I had nowhere to go. And this,” he turned around, pulling his shirt collar back to reveal his green tattoo, “is just proof of it. I’m not with those guys but I know what they’re after.”

“So, you weren’t attacked as a family?”

He rewinded, the memory of the incident playing over and over again in his head. He could practically hear their door beat down, his dad dragged out as his mother pulled a handgun out from a kitchen drawer and urged him and Chris to duck behind the counter with her. A full-blown shiver made its way through his body, sending him into a cold, unending tremble.

“No, we were. It’s why we had to get into gang violence in the first place. I just felt so ashamed and-”

“Mitch.”

“Olivia, I need you to understand that what I did I didn't mean to do it okay? I--I--it was a mistake. I didn't know what else I could--I didn't know where else I could go and I was hopeless, I didn't have any money, I was going to be out on the streets,” he was rambling now, struggling to find a way to shine an empathetic light on himself, “and it was like they offered me everything, like I had a family again, and I fell for it. I made a mistake and I'm sorry but I thought you should know.” If he was sweating, it wasn’t working. Heat was packing in underneath his clothes, constricting him, binding him in a molten pit of discomfort. He tried to swallow back the saliva foaming at the roof of his mouth, staring Olivia straight in the eye, lips pressed together.

“That's why I left; that's why I'm here, because it was wrong and I know it's wrong but I couldn't--I couldn't live with myself anymore and I just want to be with you. I love you, I love you so much. You've been everything to me so if you hate me that's okay, but at least you know the truth.” She let him grab the sides of her arms, pulling them up so that they could cup his face. Admitting to being the villain, it was almost worse than living a lie. She was looking at him like he was a completely different person, responsible for so much grief. Any money comeuppance he’d ever claimed from his grunt work became worth nothing more than dirt. He’d burn it, if it made the happiness and love for him return to her eyes.

For a few minutes they breathed together, synchronized by the tragedy. After a while, her hands pressed in, tracing the lines of his cheekbones, dropping down his throat, paint the veins and cataloguing his Adam’s apple with excruciating detail. Scrutiny, what he was so used to seeing reflected back at him, the disapproval that had nailed itself into his body and mind since Chris first started passing down his improvisational virgin credit card technique building inside of him like a pressure cooker.

He expected that same emotion to increase as the realization set in, and he’d become a monster to her, a pesticide poisoning their lives that should be tossed out the window and into the trash. To his surprise, her eyes swelled with dampness, lip quivering as she pulled Mitch in to hug him. The tempestuous feeling brewing inside was settled with a single act of kindness, and Olivia's body moulded the shape of his chest as she relaxed into him, the terminal act of trust.

Mitch didn’t realize he too was crying until Olivia started shushing him, rocking them both together as she combed her hands through his hair. She paid special attention to the spot where the tattoo was burned into his flesh, stroking it up and down, remembering, assimilating the ink decorating the skin green and gold.

“I’m so sorry,” Mitch whined, grabbing handfuls of her hair and pulling it towards him, tangling them up in an art piece of limbs. “I feel like this is my fault.”

“It’s not your fault. Oh Mitchy,” she replied, in tandem. She knew what he was going to say, and as if they are singing a duet in the song of life, it’s an automatic response. His sighs met with her breathy little laughs, his tears shared with her. “I’ve already forgiven you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes isolation-use for the purpose of manipulation and oral sex.


	6. February 9, 2026

**February 9, 2026**

It got easier, entering a relationship and remaining on amicable terms with his captor. Frankly put, it was _easier_ being obedient. Obedience meant the fridge wasn’t locked, that he could shower without supervision and pick out his own clothes. It meant receiving gifts, little knick knacks that kept him busy throughout the day.

Still citing a concussion, Auston limited Mitch’s access outside and around technology, but not to the same severity as before. It’d been long enough now that his head stopped aching, and when Auston pulled out his old 3DS, Mitch nearly squealed with joy. He’d never owned one as a child, just watched his peers from the sidelines with envious eyes. The technology was dated without a doubt, but he sunk hours into it, glued to the outlet in the living room where he made a nest of pillows and blankets.

The new nest, where he kept things he loved that Auston had gifted, became a circle of comfort he could sink into and sleep in, cocooned in walls of cotton with items of material value pinching his chest. When he woke up, Auston would be there reading his work documents, scanning the ink with Mitch tucked in his side. Usually, he would go on to explain what he was doing and how it was important to his cause. The old Mitch would have rolled his eyes and dozed off with little discretion, but with very little stimulation in and around the apartment he grew to cherish the moments when he and Auston got time alone to talk.

It also allowed him time to use his phone and browse the internet, constantly under the watchful eye of Auston. He entertained himself with Youtube videos, the first ones he could find under a simple search, one earbud in his ear and the other in Auston’s as they laughed together, like one big machine conjoined at the hip.

They’d even made a habit of cooking together, just to keep the time passing by without substance. The first project that wasn’t dinner was a plate of cinnamon rolls, prepackaged with only the sugar icing needing to be made. This time, Auston let him cut the plastic protection seal with a knife without guiding him, and then let him open the oven with two mitts the size of bear paws engulfing his hands. He could slip the rolls in, feel the exhale of the oven warm his face, and know it was the little freedoms that truly made him feel valued.

And when Auston had taken him outside on the balcony again to eat, it felt all the more special. They had to sit under the awning tethered in the cement floor because a recent snowfall had turned the streets white, and lit two candles with Auston’s lighter just to set the mood.

“It’s not a date, not really,” Auston said, smirking. “I want it to be nicer than this.”

Despite his words, he produced a champagne bottle and got to work filling two plastic (but definitely glass-looking what with the sheen) flutes to the midpoint. He clinked their glasses today and threw his head back to take a sip, while Mitch preferred the more subtle means of ducking his head to taste the first drop with the tip of his tongue.

He’d never had the luxury of tasting champagne, and the first smack of his lips birthed a bubbling sensation he couldn’t put a name too. It wasn’t bitter, not sweet, but had its own unique flavour he couldn’t classify nor justify if he liked or not. With Auston’s happiness in mind, he continued to drink more, mindful of the lingering aftertaste.

Outside had always meant the patio or balcony or window “dates” Auston would sporadically take him on, so when Auston later mentioned going out for a dinner date one night after Mitch climaxed into his hand he assumed it would be much of the same. They were nice, but not something to celebrate, just a break from whatever routine he’d settled for that evening.

Which is why he tilted his head when Auston pulled out Mitch's old white collar t-shirt the next morning. It was the same one Mitch had been wearing when they’d first been reunited, the holes and dirt stains still evident. He was surprised Auston had kept the thing, as mangled as it was.

Auston was checking the tags with perceptive eyes, occasionally looking over his shoulder to weigh in the actual Mitch. Perplexed, Mitch shuffled his feet and remained in place, hands crossed behind his back. Finally, Auston came to some reasonable conclusion, walking into the closet and retrieving a nice, black suit jacket. When he held it up to Mitch, he could see that it fell down to his mid-thigh, sleeves pulled down past his arms and shoulders arched where Mitch’s slumped. When Auston made a dismissive noise, Mitch finally worked up the courage to ask.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to decide what size would fit you. I’m going to ask someone to pick up a suit. I want you to look nice,” he said, walking away like he hadn’t just spoken absolute nonsense.

Mitch followed him out of the room, watching Auston put the suit jacket on a hanger and escort it out with his bags and what looked like endless stacks of binders and coloured paper.

“Why would I need a suit?” Mitch asked. There’d never been a dress code before. He always had worn oversized sweats and t-shirts that he could pull over his knees when he sat. It’d become the norm to expect his clothes to be hand-me-downs left on the dresser in the morning or folded nicely in the drawers underneath Auston’s where he kept his few belongings not in the nest.

“For our date, obviously. I was thinking a navy blue, but Willy suggested maroon and silver for you, so I’m not quite sure. Do you have a preference?” Mitch didn’t know what he’d look like in either. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Whatever you’d like,” he said. Auston nodded, satisfied.

“Good. I’ll see you tonight at five. Please shower and look nice, I’m aiming to impress.” He walked around to greet Mitch halfway, leaving him with a kiss on the forehead. It’d become a custom to give one before he left; had been giving ever since the two day disappearance in Montreal. It gave hope that he’d be coming back, that his goodbye wasn’t final, just a “see you later” sort of deal.

He waved Auston goodbye, wishing him a good day and watching him depart through the elevator, the mouth of the door closing behind him. Left to his own devices, Mitch decided it’d be best to read, then make lunch, then shower and have ample time to groom himself before Auston got home. Now that he’d mentioned it, a shower did sound nice, and Auston had just bought a new brand of shampoo that made Mitch’s toes curl in delight. He’d been itching to try it out.

He was deciding on whether or not to let his hair fluff up or part it from the side when Auston returned, though this time, not alone. He heard the other two before he saw them, their laughs foreign and strange. It sent a stroke of fear barreling up his spine, and he reached a hand behind him to steady himself against the living room end table as the three walked around the wall separating them from view.

The other two were actual humans beings, there, interacting in their apartment. Their faces were stone, laughs gruff and half under their breath. They looked like they could be hired muscle, and they weren’t _looking_ too kindly at Mitch. Luckily, Auston pushed to the front of the herd before they could move closer. Mitch found the temptation of running to hide behind him boiling inside of him, yearning for his only source of protection inside the building.

“Mitch, I’d like you to meet Marty and Polak. Or more specifically Matt Martin and Roman Polak. They’re going to be coming with us tonight.” Auston gestured at the both of them, who responded with simultaneous nods.

Confused, Mitch looked between them, anxious to convey _help_ and _get away from me_ with his eyes at the same time. Auston was walking before to him before he could make up his mind, patting Mitch’s cheek with his right hand.

“You look nice tonight, Mouse,” he said, using his other hand to part Mitch’s hair from the side. Mitch let him work, happy that someone else could help him come to a consensus on what looked best. All the while, the two strange men watched on, not betraying any semblance of emotion beyond the brick walls they called faces.

“Thanks--”

“--And I got you a suit. I hope you don’t mind blue, but I thought it would match your eyes.” Auston held up a hanger that looked like it’d come right from the dry cleaners, shoving it in Mitch’s direction so that he’d take it. He had no idea what to do with it, but Auston was quick to show him to the room, leaving the strangers idling in their apartment complex like lost sheep.

He’d never worn a suit, much less known how to put it on. Auston looked as happy as a kid in a candy store when he’d voiced it, helping him out of his clothes (and not missing the opportunity to comment on the new smell wafting from Mitch’s hair) and dressing him up like a doll. It was an out of body experience, Mitch had little to do with it besides stepping out of clothes when Auston asked and shrugging on button-up shirts and holding a tie in place as Auston showed him an efficient means of tying it. It happened so quickly he couldn’t dedicate anything to memory, but he had a feeling Auston wouldn’t mind him asking for help in the future anyways.

When he looked in the stand up mirror, he saw a different person. Auston was behind him, like some proud parent at their kid’s soccer game, watching Mitch twirl around and look at the different angles. Mitch found himself admiring how the suit accentuated his natural form and truly did bring out his eyes. It was like living the fairytale dream, owning the expensive clothing and living in the penthouse suite with an equally successful partner.

Honestly, it was hard to believe returning to a normal life after this. Even if it wasn’t a consensual agreement at first, it wasn’t like he was being kept under threat. On the contrary, he was very much loved. Flashing the bracelet Auston had purchased for Christmas only affirmed this, and he watched his partner’s face mould into a pure look of unaltered love, the hug that followed unable to speak to the lengths Auston would go to to show Mitch his love for him.

Mitch passed on wearing cologne, but Auston was generous with his own. They walked out side by side, Auston tucking a wallet into one of many concealed pockets that his suit jacket provided without even passing Mitch a glance.

The two men from earlier were still rocking back in forth in the living room, waiting for instructions. They eerily turned to face Auston when they both approach from the mouth of the hallway.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked Marty to be your personal bodyguard,” Auston whispered to Mitch, one hand sliding down to grasp his.

“Bodyguard?” Mitch turned to look at Auston. “But I don’t need a bodyguard. I’m here.”

“Well if you’re going out, you can never be too safe. They’re just going to flank us, just in case. I have every inclination that tonight will go well, but I want you to remember it fondly too.” Mitch tilted his head, confused.

“Why? Is someone going to shoot us from the balcony?” His mind immediately supplied images of a sniper on the roof, gunning them down like fish in a barrel. Auston’s eyebrows furrowed, face morphed in a sight of confusion until he finally worked out what Mitch was trying to convey.

“Oh Mitch, sweetheart, when I said out, I meant out. We’re going to a restaurant.”

The truth slapped Mitch in the face. His mouth dropped, the expectations of the night tossed out the window at the revelation.

“You mean, _out_ out? Like leaving the building?” Auston laughed, the men joining in, except it wasn’t as reassuring as when Auston was doing it. A red flush worked its way up to the tips of Mitch’s ears.

“Yes Mouse, it’s going to be nice. I was wondering why you were so calm about the whole ordeal, but it’s no wonder; you were expecting the balcony. I told you I was going to treat you nice, and I know a great place only a few blocks from here.” He started walking, and Mitch followed, head ducked down as the bodyguards assumed their positions behind them. Their vision was piercing Mitch like tiny daggers, stabbing into his clothes and pinning him to the wall.

He watched as Auston methodically removed his key card and swiped it in the reciprocal against the wall, the elevator humming in response. An unnerving tension was working its way through his shoulders, the prospect of out so tempting, almost too good to be true. He just had to hope that Auston wasn’t going to stuff him in the trunk and escort him that way.

Just before they walked in, Auston’s hand linked itself with Mitch’s again, squeezing. Their fingers locked in together, a combination of trust and love meeting its climatic breaking point. They both know what was on the edge of Mitch’s mind, the temptation of freedom presenting itself with open arms to a recluse who’d barely seen the sun in who knows how long. Any and all escape attempts revived themselves like the undead, plundering Mitch’s vision with thoughts of knocking Auston over the head and running to the nearest police station like hell, panting his guts out, screaming to anyone that would listen about the horrors he met.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Auston interrupted, “and I wouldn’t do it. I’m putting my absolute trust in you to not take advantage of this.”

“I wasn’t thinking about it,” Mitch said, in response.

The two men entered behind him, their presence choking what little oxygen there was out of the room. Auston pulled Mitch to the back of the elevator by their linked hands, the bar against the reflective windows digging into their backs. It caused a ripple effect; Mitch was over-sensitive to the material of his new clothing and anything that could hook or rip it. He didn’t want to cause trouble, not when Auston had gone out of his way to get it for him.

“Don’t lie to me Mitchy, I know you were. It’s okay. I just want you to know that if you deny my help, then you lose the privilege of living here. The last thing I want to do is throw you out on the streets.”

The thought of Olivia came to mind, with their shared flat. He’d never come back that day, he hadn’t chipped in rent for December and what he presumed was still January. He never showed up for his shift on Monday. Did she move out, maybe get a new roommate? Had she forgotten about him, or had she filed a missing person report?

The emergence of her brought a semblance of doubt, and his grip against Auston’s hand weakened in the face of his old relationship, the one he’d honestly expected to maintain well into the thought of engagement when he’d pulled together enough money to afford a ring. Yes, it was young and stupid, but he was dreaming of a relationship that could provide that stability, where they’d annually set up shop in the farmer’s market and eventually he could propose to her with her father and mother behind him, hands cupping over their mouths as their faces sparkled with happy tears.

That was the fairytale after the dreams of unattainable wealth and glory, the one rooted in reality. After not thinking about it for so long it came back with a vengeance, pulling up receipts of Auston’s mistreatment.

The thought of running was the only thing his mind could focus on, blurring out whatever mundane subject Auston had decided to lecture him about. Instead, in an act of small defiance, Mitch watched the lit elevator buttons slowly flicker off one by one as they approached the first floor. It didn’t last as long as he’d hoped; maybe if it was before the suit and dinner he might have found the strength in him to pinch Auston’s hand with his fingernails or step on the back of his feet while he walked. Now though, it felt like he was taking it for granted.

There was one thing he could say about Auston that was true, he was no physical abuser. The hitting, the held at gunpoint, the stabbing he’d anticipated never occurred. As much as he wanted to believe Auston was capable of doing it, the accusations or allegations were just words.

There was never any pressure to conform beyond that. Auston was wary, a silent kind, where he observed Mitch’s mannerisms and calmly fixed them. There’d be times when Mitch would swear or drop a glass and freeze up, expecting something, and then be left confused when Auston would either fix the problem or nicely reprimand him, in an impassive, motherly-way.

So many opportunities that welcomed abuse and Auston had taken none of them. If he’d been kidnapped by anyone else he’d be beaten black and blue by now. This dinner was such a huge event that he didn’t want to run the risks of accidentally upsetting him and welcoming the first punishment, so he smashed the rebellious thoughts inside of him and followed Auston out of the elevator in an orderly fashion.

The architecture of the lobby was as beautiful as the penthouse, with a golden aura that captured the regal theme of wealth and prosperity. Mitch hadn’t gotten a good look at it the first time he’d been here--Auston had kept his head down as quite literally dragged him into the elevator. The only warning he had was to “not make a scene” and out of fear for the people that might witness and need to be exterminated, he zipped his mouth shut.

Grappling with the complexity of his release, everything was sensory overload. Every sense was lit aflame with new colours, new sounds, things he’d been separated from for so long and he’d only experienced through the imperceptible view of the balcony. It only amplified to the extreme when he walked outside, blasted with the cold air and snow falling from the dark blanket swallowing up the moon.

There was a black car pulled up, another blocky man leaning against the passenger door. Recognizing the coloured hair, Mitch was sent back to the day of his capture, seeing the same man get into the car with them as Auston wrapped him up in his arms to weigh him down. He declared it with little faith though, because he’d been so overcome with sobs that he couldn’t see straight, only remembering a fiery red colour in front of them.

“Marner,” the man greeted, though he didn’t hold out a hand.

Auston beat Mitch to the man. “Freddie,” Auston said, the fondness returning with gushing force.

Mitch kept his head down, letting them perform their little greeting and handshake without outside interruption. Snowflakes caught in his eyelashes, vision blurring into a watery, white mess. He’d pulled himself so into looking small and indistinguishable that when Freddie pressed down on his back with the brunt of his palm, he jumped. Quite literally. Jumped. A few inches in the air, tugging a laugh out of Auston’s chest.

“Jumpy aren’t you?” he teased, leaning in close to nose at Mitch’s throat. “It’s fine. We’ll sit in the back together. It’ll be nice.”

Mitch nodded, letting Freddie cordially open the door so that he could step inside. The interior was a fine leather that resonated with a strong smell. The windows were tinted, more so from the outside than in, but it painted the world in a dark haze. Distorted, the people walked on, unaware they were being studied from behind a pane of glass. It promoted a God complex, nibbling at Mitch’s ear just to let him know it was there, unwavering.

Auston sat beside him, but moved over to make room for Marty. Polak sat at the front, closing the door behind him without objection. It was chilling, watching how they didn’t interact with emotion in accordance with anything. He felt like he was watching a nature documentary about some endangered species being introduced to humans; it was the only way to explain the steel-lipped muscled men flocking after them like paparazzi.

The drive was quiet, simple. As Auston had said, it wasn’t far. The trip was only prolonged because of the city’s strict guidelines on when and where you could turn left. Even outside, he felt as though he were encased in a glass bubble, helpless to do anything but watch. Auston placed a hand on his thigh, rubbing circles into the fabric, leaning over to whisper to him like it would pacify the torment of emotion racing back and forth in Mitch’s head. He allowed it, not disliking the gesture but not loving it either, sitting on the proverbial edge as the sidewalks and streetcars raced back and forth up the pothole-ridden streets.

He didn’t expect Auston to be frugal, but it was still awkward pulling up to a restaurant on one of the busier streets, with no patio out front but the option for valet parking available. The signage outside was black, big gold cursive swirling around in a parade of sophistication. The inside was dark, but the few lights inside promised a cosy atmosphere, warmed by amber overhead lights purposely built to look like chandeliers, and another row bolted against the wall that was partially concealed by greenery that was impossible to grow outside in the freezing conditions.

Auston got out first, as he was the closest to the sidewalk. Mitch slid across the streets to join him, taking the extended hand and letting Auston bear the brunt of his weight until he got a leg up and out of the vehicle.

Once Auston had his hand, he didn’t let it go, tugging him inside without exchanging a single word with Freddie. It didn’t seem to matter; Freddie was running on some unspoken communication and pulling away before they’d even entered the building.

Inside there was a palpable sense of finality slathered everywhere, from the gold-rimmed glasses to the glossy tables. Mitch was afraid to even look up, feeling as though anything he conveyed, any emotion or action would incriminate them. Instead, he let Auston be his clairvoyant guide, looking down at their hands to ground himself in the moment. All around him he could hear the sounds of fine dining, glasses clinking, muffled laughter, the appreciative hums when food was delivered to the tables.

They were set up in a two-person booth against the wall, close enough to the glass to see outside, but still too far for Mitch’s liking. With absolutely no background in social expertise, he let Auston lead the way, mimicking how he removed his serviette from the glasses in front of them and laid it across his lap.

“It suits you well,” Auston said, breaking the tangible silence stretched out between them.

Mitch raised his eyebrows, watching as Auston gestured out to his wrist. The suit wasn’t a hundred percent fitted because it looked like Auston had guessed on many of the measurements, so the sleeves pulled up a bit when Mitch reached out. It showed the bracelet in all its glory, the make embellished with the glittering from the restaurant’s many reflective opal statues resting on the plane of solid wood separating the booths.

He blushed, unsure of what to say, but Auston took control of the moment. He met Mitch’s hand in the middle of the table, pressing it down into the table. Their bracelets hit together. Auston’s thumb rolled into the base of Mitch’s wrist, stroking up and down. It was so intimate that Mitch didn’t know how to respond, much less in public of all places. He hadn’t even tried looking around out of fear it would be perceived as an escape attempt.

There was an elderly couple at the table closest to them, a younger group chatting at a long table in the back. The surrounding booths were empty, but the atmosphere felt cramped--in a good way. It was the right kind of presence that solidified the freedom of interacting with other people, and it was the right dosage for Mitch to not become disillusioned with fascination. He was happy they drove there, walking on the streets with the traffic and people, seeing the homeless on the streets, the shoppers leaving the small businesses, the sports fans, drunk, staggering around the city, would have been so chaotic he might become impulsive at the wrong opportunity.

He tried to relax and enjoy the dinner while it lasted. He didn’t know where to begin making small-talk, especially if it, again, said more than he intended. Auston picked up when the pregnant silence turned the mood slightly bitter, describing one of the annoying clients he’d been burdened with. Mitch had almost forgotten the sense of humour Auston garnered that had made him so attractive in those early days, and therefore laughed a bit harder than expected when the conclusion rolled around. The noise felt particularly invasive.

“He called me a self-entitled asshole because I had to correct a simple mistake, then went on for hours complaining about how we spelt his name on a form wrong once.” Auston shook his head. “Moron.”

“How did you spell it?” Mitch was drawn into the story, about the rampaging old people storming into the bank once afternoon demanding their insurance brokers give them benefits on the wake of a new financial plan released by the government. Mitch’s earlier investigations at the apartment helped clarify the little details that, a few months ago, he’d scratch his head at.

“Well, his name was Bernard Sites. I suspect the receptionist typed it up as B-E-R-N-A-R-D and that ended up in his file by mistake. But no, his name is Bernerd, with two e’s. I guess that’s not his fault, but then he goes and throws a pen at me.” Mitch had no idea who the man was, but he had guts, he’d give him that. Auston must have been livid.

“Because you spelt his name wrong?”

“Well, more because we denied his travel insurance claim but I bet that had something to do with it.” The inflextions combined with the deadpan expression Auston was pulling made Mitch struggle to hide as his face split out with giggles. It was only interrupted by the waiter returning with their dishes. The ones Auston had recommended and Mitch approved with a nod because who was he kidding, he hadn’t the slightest clue what tasted good and what was appropriate for the venue.

It was nice. Just talking, eating like a regular couple. Sure, Marty and Polak were still cramped back in a table just in view and yes, Mitch couldn’t ignore the multitude of people with Leafs-inspired tattoos and body modifications that stuck out like a sore thumb against the attire, but he was willing to put all of that behind him to bite down on the forkful of pasta weaved around the so-called “mother of pearl” flatware Auston kept gushing on about.

The food practically melted on the surface of his tongue, taste buds experiencing their own euphoria that he’d be unable to replicate in the future. Growing up with so little meant dinners like this were a luxury they couldn’t afford, and when they did for special occasions it was a matter of assessing the items on the menu and coming up with the cheapest combination of items to get the most bang for their buck.

When the waiter dropped off the bill that anxiety skyrocketed into a near panic attack; he hadn’t even seen the numbers but he shrank back into his seat and lifted his shoulders up to hide his body from Auston. Without hesitation Auston removed a card and placed it on the table, gesturing for Mitch to continue eating the ice cream they’d ordered for dessert. He looked so confident, never expecting a card decline or problem with cash that it was almost seducing in its own right. With Auston, Mitch had that now too.

He scrambled to finish eating his ice cream, putting off the physical winces from brain freeze by sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth. There was a layer of hot fudge melted on top, dripping down the sides and topped with a juicy red cherry that looked ready to burst. It was probably the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and yet, Auston hadn’t even touched his. When Mitch tried to convey this with his eyes, Auston shook his head and pushed the dish towards him.

“Go on, it’s yours,” he said, sitting quietly as Mitch initially refused with a tiny noise. “I know you want it. I’m full, you need to eat.” Auston went so far as to reach over and place it in front of Mitch, giving him two dishes instead of one. Mitch briefly considered replicating the habit of couples to argue about who ate the last morsel until both of they starved, but it looked like Auston’s conviction was final from the way his face was set in stone.

Defeated, Mitch began a single scoop, only stopping to lift up the cherries by their stems and hand them over to Auston’s outstretched hand.

“I don’t like cherries. Compromise?” Auston did nothing for a second, then broke out into a grin and accepted the offering. Without replying, Auston opened his mouth and placed the first cherry inside, teeth slicing down and separating the bulb from the stem. He repeated it with the second, flashing Mitch a look of his cherry-blood stained teeth.

“Ew, gross. We’re in a restaurant, Matts,” Mitch chided, looking around, hoping no one saw rising businessman Auston Matthews smiling like an idiot at the skinny, impoverished kidnapping victim right across from him. At the urging of his instincts to run, get ready to fight because there was a predator in front of him smiling with bloody teeth, Mitch finished the last few bites of the ice cream, licking his lips and then the spoon in order to remove the evidence of a meal.

“Can we go?” he asked, then stopped himself. “I mean, should we go?”

Auston stood up, shaking his head a brief moment and grabbing Mitch by his left elbow. “I need to introduce you to a few more people while we’re here. We won’t be long.”

Pleasantly full and body warm with the weight of the food, Mitch had no reservations about making a quick detour so long as they got back to the apartment soon so that he could sleep off the sensations. It’d been a while since he tasted food not made by his own or Auston’s hands, and the richness of the flavour was so foreign that it almost made him sick initially before melting into a pool at the bottom of his stomach, radiating waves of contentedness. He had removed his suit jacket during the dinner because the bustle and noise had made him steadily cook inside, and Auston was courteous enough to slip it up and over his shoulders as they stood.

Auston led them confidently up a few stairs to the main dining area, that, if cleared, could probably host a dance of some sort. If the talk was loud before, there it was overpowering. So many people were blended together in a cultural mix of integration, with a representative from one age demographic shaking the hand of another, that Mitch had no idea what or who Auston would be looking for. The room had no focal point; it was just noise.

Being bigger, Auston had more problems navigating in and out of tables, but most people were aware enough to tuck their chairs in when he passed. It was looking more and more like a charity gala the farther in they walked, the decorations becoming less modern and more royal. It felt darker too, the gold hues sunsetting into a red, crimson blush that, combined with black, eclipsed the room in shadow. The only light source that far in was the candles assigned to each individual table.

Finally, after minutes of weaving around people and nearly bumping into waiters, Auston arrived at a semi-circle table where a group of men were passing around cream coloured folders. Auston cleared his throat to get their attention, and in a moment’s notice all eyes were on Mitch, picking him apart flaw by flaw.

“Hey Aus,” said the first, a blond one which looked about their age, or even a bit younger. The stubble on his chin was deceiving. “How’s it hanging?”

“Good,” Auston replied. He brought the back his hand down on the small of Mitch’s back and no-so-politely shoved him forced to let the men get a closer look. “This is Mitch Marner. He’s one of the London defectors we brought over through Kadri.”

A surge of appreciative noises washed over Mitch, their eyes either brightening with intrigue or darkening with mistrust. None of them looked brave enough to challenge Auston though, which Mitch was grateful for.

“He’s pretty,” said the blonde again, raising his glass as if to toast.

Mitch winced, not because of the compliment, but because he was afraid of how Auston would react. The bruises Auston had embellished him with numerous times were tell-tale signs of how much self-control he was willing to relent around others with Mitch: which was very little.

To his surprise though, Auston laughed. It looked like he was agreeing, but Mitch could feel the hand tighten, tucking out the bottom of his button-up shirt to form a little ducktail from behind him.

“Don’t bother him Willy. Auston, give the kid some space.” A brown-haired one stood up and took Mitch by the hand, smiling at him courteously. Mitch liked him already. “I’m Zach. Pleasure to meet you Mitch. What did you do in London, if I may ask?”

Mitch turned to look at Auston questioningly, unaware if Auston wanted the truth or a fabrication of it. There was no indication of deceit clouding Auston’s eyes, though it could’ve been the wine talking, so Mitch dug into the repressing thoughts and, with a sigh, tried to find the best, most educated way to explain his trades.

“My brother taught me how to skim, so I did a lot of that. I drove a lot of the vehicles across the border with uh,” he looked around briefly, “stuff--illegal weapons, um, inside. I did a lot of the cover-ups too. So, not in your face, but definitely there if you’re looking hard enough.” His insides twisted. He didn't want to tell the truth.

Zach looked pretty appeased, a happy-go-lucky smile making the initial doubts melt inside of Mitch. The reception was much happier from there out, and he was able to make small talk with Zach (finally putting a face to the mysterious Hyms that kept coming up in conversation), and get to know bits and pieces of Willy, the blond. All the while, Auston continued to hand over a never-ending stream of files to some of the older men sitting around the middle of the booth, eyes dull, and hands twitching every so often. Mitch didn’t want to get involved with them.

Auston was right; they didn’t stay long. Just long enough for Mitch to see that Willy had an adorable poodle dog and find out that yes, it was possible to live in a mob and be a children’s book author. It seemed everyone seated had some kind of community charity or volunteer organization that they devoted all their days to. Two years ago he would laugh if one of his co-workers told him they worked evenings at the local animal shelter, but he supposed he wasn’t one to judge, doing something in the same thing an effort to get away.

When he voiced this, inadvertently when the topic of volunteering rolled around, Wily raised a glass, saying, “that’s not that bad of an idea. Maybe Auston will let you go back to London. You’d be their darling.”

It made the confidence budding in Mitch withering away in seconds; he couldn’t imagine walking back into the farmer’s market after leaving so abruptly and being met with anything but dislike. He would like to see Chris though, if he did get to visit.

After coming to the conclusion that Auston’s friends weren’t the worst people to hang out with, it was time to go, curfew, Auston cited. With so much excitement making up the majority of the evening, Mitch was easy to agree with the order and trail behind Auston like a lost puppy. His eyes felt heavy with sleep, hunger and thirst satisfied by their meal and energy spent on looking around and memorizing the sights and sounds of the restaurant. He’d tired out all the possibilities to keep himself entertained, and just wanted to fall into their bed and stretch out like a cat synthesizing in the light of a window. Except it would be darkness, a silencing darkness only combated by the duet of snores and huff from both him and Auston.

It was no colder outside than it had been when they got there, but after being submerged in the heat for so long it was a sucker punch to the gut to face it again. Freddie and his vehicle were nowhere to be seen, the traffic slowed to a stand-still in front of them because of a malfunctioning light. Around it, a few police and electricians sporting bright, neon orange vests worked to get it back to functioning as traffic was slowly directed from the middle of the intersection.

“Shit, Freddie must be stuck behind. Do you just want to walk?” Auston asked. Mitch, on any other given day, would have declined. His feet were already dragging behind him, lethargy pulling at his limbs and tucking him into the confines of a deep sleep.

“I don’t mind,” he said. Auston held his hand out, waiting for permission, and Mitch took it with little hesitation.

After being inside for so long Auston’s normally freezing hands were a comfortable kind of warm that Mitch latched onto with hopeless devotion. There was some kind of kinetic force that kept them submerged in each other’s presence, eating up whatever mutual attraction it found just to survive. At least, that’s how Mitch would’ve classified it a year ago. He couldn’t put his finger on it now. There were too many mixed symbols, evidence of good and bad treatment that was tampering with his moral compass and capacity to judge his surroundings. After all, his world has consisted of nothing but Auston through and through, the ownership sewed into his person like an identity tag.

It should have frightened him, and probably would a month or two ago. The hidden benefits, however, mediated the anger boiling underneath the surface. It wasn’t an all or nothing deal; he was compensated for participating. By all accounts he was just as much in control as Auston was, and it had been entirely his decision to come here and do this alongside his friend. Yeah, his friend. This was a business operation, native to Auston’s expertise. A mutual agreement they both shook hands to.

Knowing that he had some part to play in taking initiative made it easier to precipitate the effects of his personal negligence. Auston took them away from the crowds of people building up at the entrance and walked west so that they were backtracking through the streets of Toronto. The neighbourhood was pleasantly rich, not overcompensating, but decked in beautiful storefronts and retail locations. Like a child, Mitch found himself turning his head to admire the contents of the display windows, and Auston humoured him throughout it, even pointing out little aspects Mitch’s eye missed.

At one point a child--running after his mother most likely--came barreling towards them at top speed. Mitch was hoping he’d look up and see he was about to collide head-first with them, but before the impact could occur Auston walked to the side, hand still locked with Mitch’s own. It created a small arch that faltered on Mitch’s side. Understanding his motive, Mitch leaned to the left and held his arm out so that the two, still walking as one, had created a bridge the child could run under. Auston still didn’t look up, even as he chased after a woman in a long purple sequin coat, with two twin scarves flowing out behind her.

If Mitch squinted, he could see two distinct bodies following them, dodging the family and continuing in their pursuit.

Mitch couldn’t contain a little laugh; Auston joined in two, bringing them back together so that their shoulders met. Auston made a tiny comment about kids that provoked a smile from Mitch that split from ear to ear. In the end, it was nothing but endearing.

“Do you want to have kids one day?” Auston asked innocently after, thumbing at Mitch’s hand.

Mitch swung their arms back and forth, teeth pressed together in another open-mouthed smile.

“Yeah.” He couldn’t deny it. Not in rain or shine, day or night, in the farmer’s market with a lovely lady or out in the freezing cold with a former hook-up. Now felt early, earlier than necessary, but in the future when he was financially secure it was an aspiration he’d coveted even as a young adult. It’d sprung from a desire to be the parents his father and mother had never been to him, to give his children the opportunity to be something greater.

“Me too,” Auston admitted. “Not sure how many though.”

“One would be nice for me. Just to see if I’d be a good father or not.” Any more than that and his head might explode. He’d never held a toddler without it coming with the crippling fear of dropping the poor thing and causing permanent injuries. He couldn’t imagine the anxiety of holding a newborn, keeping its head supported, and trying not jostle it all at the same time.

“You’d be a terrific father,” Auston said, bumping his head against Mitch’s so that his black fringes wiped over Mitch’s cheek and low forehead. The gesture felt very feline-esque. “I could see it. You and a little, tinier version.”

“You going to kidnap a kid for us too?” Mitch tried to joke, but it came out sour without him meaning to.

Auston’s smile dropped, his hand holding on tighter than before. Any temporary alliance they’d formed was wiped clean in an instant and Mitch felt awful. After having the whole evening play out just like it did in the movies, he had to open his big stupid mouth.

“No no no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know you like kids too. You’d never do that.” Mitch tried to pacify him, but Auston’s defences were already reflecting everything thrown at him. Those barriers were rising between them again, and whenever they did Auston would leave him alone. By all accounts, those should be momentary collections of freedom, but when they did happen Mitch was left as an empty shell, yearning for the attention he was deprived of inside of the apartment.

“I was just joking,” Mitch said.

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it. I did all of this to save you and give you a second chance,” Auston said. The words wrapped around Mitch’s heart like poisonous vines, piercing inwards.

“I know you are and I am so, so thankful. I had so much fun tonight. Your friends seemed so nice too.” Auston laughed, though his expression determined otherwise.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew who they really were,” he protested. Mitch huffed.

“I know who they are, thank you very much. I know you and then go about defrauding the government or something,” Mitch paused, looking around to make sure no one was following them (minus the bodyguards, which belonged to them like shadows). He lowered his voice. “I mean, it’s probably something worse than that, but I don’t need to know.”

“Actually, you’re not that far off.” Auston’s face was wiped of emotion, like it normally did when he talked business. “We’re an insurance company, so most of our profit comes from there. Money laundering is just a bonus.”

They arrived at a crosswalk and Auston stopped talking to press the button designed for pedestrians to start the countdown. When they weren’t moving the cold became almost unbearable.

“Sounds hard,” Mitch said. All the numbers and no visual stimuli would wear him out faster than a new brand of sneakers.

“It’s not that hard. You can do a lot of it online and it really is just working for a legitimate business.” The light turned and they started walking southbound, completely changing direction. The more high-end district faded to a novelty block with old antiques and printing press. There were twice as many recycling bins lounging around there. Auston was still talking, but Mitch hadn’t realized he zoned out.

“--and then you got people that are just plain stupid but you get those everywhere. It’s got fun parts too. I get a lot of hockey tickets up in the box seats, if you’d like to come sometime.” Mitch’s attention was grasped tenfold. He looked up, eyes wide.

“Really?” The whole idea felt so surreal, actually seeing the teams he grew up with watching from the old boxed television set in the corner of the living room. Auston was talking about it like it was nothing, like Mitch wouldn’t give his right hind leg just to be apart of that and  _experience_ that universe.

“Yeah. They got really good food there. I can introduce you to more of my people. It’d be like, another date night,” he said, unashamed. It sounded so casual, a promise embedded in the medicinal way Auston spaced his words, still encompassing Mitch in a bubble of pure, unfiltered adoration. They could be in a room with a hundred people and Auston would only have eyes for him.

“You’d do that for me?” He stopped walking, turning to look at Auston head-on. The fact that the tips of his fingers felt like they would fall off had become irrelevant.

“That and anything for you in a heartbeat,” Auston pressed their hands together, “I love you, Mitch Marner. That will never change. A game in Toronto is nothing. I’ll give you the world if you ask for it.”

Hand holding felt inadequate now to express his gratitude. He could shake from how much positive energy was radiating in his body. Unable to talk, he leaned forward, pressing his face into Auston’s neck.

Auston’s hands let go of his to creep up his back and hold him in place. It felt so sacred, secondary to their relationship up until that point. Mitch wanted to stay in the moment forever, belly full and Auston’s unwavering appreciation planting little saplings into his skin, so that all of it bloomed with sparks.

They eventually had to slice the longevity of the moment to make sure they didn’t freeze to death in the middle of the city. Auston led him, as he always did, making sure they were never more than a hand apart at all times. Except this time it was less because Auston was afraid he’d run because the trust wasn’t established and more because, like couples in the early hours of their honeymoon, there was an indescribable magnetic force propelling the touches.

Having never been outside of Auston’s apartment and looked up, he’d nearly tripped on the cracks of the sidewalk when Auston stopped mid-sentence about some manifesto the company was putting together about financial statements and held him back. Daunted, Mitch bowed to his prodding and poking as Auston worked him in the direction of the revolving door, elegantly composed in its cruelness.

‘“N--No, I can’t,” he sputtered, itching to run and hide, not go back. Even if it was familiar, a home, and what a twisted name to apply to a residence that held him captive in its belly, it reminded him of the conflict at hand. That he was a literal prisoner. Wiped, with no record to his name. He may as well not exist.

“Mitchy, you’re okay. You’re going to come back out.” Mitch was still shaking his head to keep the static out of his ears. Auston grabbed both sides of his face and leaned in. “We’ll come out like this every week, does that sound good? We’ll have a special time, just for us.”

It sounded nice, in theory. Knowing there was an out, and not only that, but an out he’d desired for so long. The panic died down in his chest, the voice in his head still wailing for him to run like hell in the opposite direction and flag down a taxi.

“You promise? Next week we will?” It felt necessary to ask, knowing the fine print that could be attached to some of Auston’s agreements. Doubt grew like a parasite inside of him when Auston didn’t immediately respond, sucking in a bout of chilling air.

“Not next week, I’m afraid.” Mitch stiffened up, and Auston raised a single hand to hold him in place. “The reason I wanted to take you out tonight was that I’m going to be gone for a week. Now, that isn’t the say I won’t take you out again, because I fully intend to, but next week I’ll be overseas.”

“Overseas?” Mitch’s voice shook, the realization of being alone for more than a day or two absolutely unbearable. He grappled for Auston’s hand, pressing into it hard enough to break bone, afraid that if he let go Auston would disappear from right in front of him. “Y--You’re coming back, right?”

“Of course, Mouse, of course. And Marty is going to come and stay with you so you’re not alone. You can do whatever you’d like, I’ll let you access the television whenever. I will be here tomorrow morning and come back next Thursday evening,” Auston said,

“Just Marty?” Not that having a bodyguard around would be bad, but he hadn't even talked to the man once. Living with him would only increase his anxiety tenfold. “But--I don’t--”

“And I’ll see if Willy and Hyms can come over too to keep you company. It will be no different from when I go to work.”

Mitch dropped Auston’s hand; he was so nervous that he could almost feel his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, the obstruction choking him.

“But you won’t be here,” he saw, voice raw. Auston didn’t have anything to say to that, just tugged Mitch close to him. With Mitch’s sense of reasoning demanding that he cry, lash out, and scream it was almost laughable that he submitted himself to Auston’s whims and walked arm-in-arm with him back to their room.

 

The morning after was especially bizarre, having taking place after obtuse wine drinking and a rich meal Mitch woke up with a fuzzy, dry feeling on his tongue. The alarm in the distance was beginning to annoy him, the noise mimicking what he’d imagine it’d feel like for someone to take a cheese grater to his ears. It was causing Auston to move too, removing a heat source from outside of his grasp, which he didn’t like very much. He reached forward to bring it back.

“Mitchy, I’ve got to go,” Auston complained.

“Noo,” he whined. “Pl’se stay.” He filled his voice with as much sugary-sweetness he could muster at six in the morning, hoping it would entice Auston back to his bed.

Auston laughed under his breath and sucked a mark into Mitch’s collarbone, the sheets shifting to make room for the both of them emerging from underneath. Auston made as if to pull away as he kicked the sheets to stick his legs out from the covers. It wrenched a sigh from Mitch, who twisted his hands into Auston’s shirt to keep him on the bed.

He’d made a valiant effort to speak for his cause, flipping over onto his back and inviting Auston to climb on top of him. He let Auston sinks his fingers into him as he sighed into his mouth.

When he came, it was at the pivotal point where it forced his brain offline. He could barely move, head fuzzy and vision experiencing feedback issues. Auston was mouthing at the sweat glazing his skin, retracting his fingers and kissing Mitch when he mewled at the oversensitivity. After that, white barraged Mitch’s senses and engulfed the remainder of Mitch’s conscious state.

Hours later, he again woke up to an empty bedroom, clothes moved on the top of the dresser and blinds pulled taut to block out the sun. He was unclothed, but otherwise undisturbed; blankets tucked around his midsection to hide his stomach’s milky skin. There was little to no indication that Auston had been around--his side of the bed was folded without so much as a crease. The digital alarm clock read 10:24.

There was a note on the bedside table closest to Mitch, held in place by Mitch’s cellphone, which was plugged into the wall bracket. The handwriting was blocky, the ink thick like the author had gone to great lengths to ensure they were pressing down hard enough to carve the message into the table underneath. Mitch had to stop and let his eyes adjust before it became comprehensive.

 

_Mitch,_

_I’ll be back a week tomorrow. Marty will be at the apartment at 8, but I told him not to wake you. He’s been instructed to look after you and make sure the fridge is stocked, so if you’re fancying anything in particular please let him know._

_The phone is yours to use; I trust you know your boundaries. Tell Chris I said hi._

 

_When I call, please answer._

 

_Love,_

_Auston_

 

**December 7, 2025**

Saturday was the only day of the week he got off with Olivia.

They had plans to move around some of the furniture in the apartment to make room for a new desk, and in the evening they would stream a movie together and fork over buttery popcorn in front of a blaring computer screen. With that in mind, getting a call from one Nazem Kadri at eight in the morning as he reclined in bed was generally unfavourable in comparison.

“Sup?” he said, rolling over onto his side and pressing his ear to the screen so that he could hear better. There was a lukewarm glass of water beside him that looked tempting enough to drink. Anything to quench his thirst.

“Hey Marns,” Naz said. “You got a minute?”

“Sure.” Mitch stuck the phone between his head and shoulder and pulled his arms back, stretching with a groan. Beside him, Olivia shifted on the bed, one arm thrown over her forehead as a steady link of snores left her lips. He pressed a kiss to her forehead then tossed the covers up and over his stomach so he could get up. “What do you need?”

“I need you to come to the receptionist hang out downtown. Today.” Mitch groaned, throwing a simple button up shirt on so he wasn’t walking around bare-chested.

“Why? ‘M Tired Naz, goodnight.” His thumb moved to press the end call button before he heard a choking sound on the other side of the line that forced him to stop.

“Just--please. It’s the last favour I’ll ever ask from you, and then you can go frolick with old people or whatever the heck it is you do now.” Mitch barely held back a laugh, shaking his head.

“Uh huh,” he replied, deadpan. “Well if it’s an emergency then why not ask someone that’s in the area? It’s going to be a while before I can get to you.” Even still, he was shrugging on a loose jean jacket tossed onto the dresser drawer. He could feel the bite of the air through the holes in the sleeve.

“Please, Mitch. I will never ask anything of you, ever. After all the times I helped Chris, could you please, just this once?” Mitch could feel him laying the guilt on thick through the phone speaker, Naz’s signature whine very much there.

“Fine, but this it the last time, y’hear? After this, I’m cutting ties permanently.”

“I promise, you won’t regret this. Come in through the front, the guys are getting ready.” And then he hung up, unafraid of the vagueness of his statement.

Mitch used his phone to do a quick check of the bus schedule, concluding that if he left now and grabbed a bite to eat after he could be back for twelve (being generous with the time he was graciously donating to Naz for illicit activity, mind you), and then sleep the day off on the couch.

He snagged a daisy chain of bus tickets, tucking them in his back pocket, and quickly tugged on a pair of denim jeans that sat firmly on his hips. Knowing London, he only took along with him a couple bills, enough to get him out of trouble if need be, and his phone. He didn’t expect to be out for too long anyways. He didn’t need a backpack or equipment, Naz always provided it. And it didn’t sound like something that was time-sensitive either. It’d be a good time to say his final goodbyes to his close friends without raising any suspicions.

He didn’t say goodbye to Olivia. She always got so confused when he woke her up to go to his background work and he didn’t have the heart to tell her where he was going; that he was still lying to her. All he could do was keep walking, with the hope of seeing her again that night and wrapping her up in his arms, smoothing her doubts with peppered kisses up and down her forehead.

When he arrived downtown, there was a stream of men escorting guitar cases from the building, none of them paying Mitch a second look. Inside, he could see a woman sitting at reception, but she functioned like swarms of young men weren’t tearing the property inside out; a phone pressed between her shoulder and cheek with one hand writing notes on a yellow sticky tab. It wasn’t the first time he’d been there, but it was the first time he’d seen the Knights intermingling with the regulars, in plain daylight, no less.

The building was only one story, decked on each side with conference halls and old vending machines that hadn’t been stocked for decades. Naz was leaning against one of the doorframes, thumbs furiously swiping at his phone screen, face twisted in a snarl. When Mitch approached he cleared his expression and slipped his phone into his front pocket.

“Ey Mitchy, long time no see,” he said, bringing Mitch in for a one-armed hug. Naz patted him once again for good measure, then pulled away, both hands still bolted to Mitch’s shoulders.

“Okay, we’re going to do this quick. I need you to come with me,” he said, tugging Mitch into the nearby room and closing the door shut.

The room had a musky smell to it, the walls green as if infested with mold. The infrastructure was visually falling apart. Against the wall Mitch could see a stack of guitar and violin cases, wads of cash jammed inside and spilling out through the sides.

He took a guess. “Is this Toronto's money?”

Naz kicked a spare blue five dollar bill to the side, the holographic colours flickering in the light shimmering in through the half-closed blinds. Mitch bent over and caught it, surveying the texture and fold of it. The edges were cut, the poppy illustration on the front smeared with dirt. Wherever the money had come from, it hadn't come without a fight. He dropped the crumbled bill to the floor.

“No, just some forgery. But that's not why I'm here,” Naz said.

Mitch held a hand up, stopping him in his tracks.

“I know what this is about. You want me to come back right? Well I've made up my mind. I'm grateful you care but-”

“Yes, but no. I don't want you to come back to the Knights. I want you to come with me to the Leafs.” Mitch’s eyes scrunched up, the urge to scratch his head to convey his confusion imminent. Naz, understanding the perplexion took pity on him.

Naz glanced over his shoulder, surveying the area, and then looked back at Mitch. He yanked his sleeve up, revealing the signature Leafs tattoo in place of London’s. “I’m not actually a Knight, Mitch.”

It hit Mitch like a sucker punch to the gut, but not because he was unfathomably loyal to London. Moreso, he was troubled by the implications that he had contacts in Toronto, that he wanted him to come with him into a future increasingly clouded with shades of doubt. He’d be a hypocrite if he complained about turning his back on a lifestyle, so he shoved down the easily formulated response of _how could you_ in favour of shaking his head again.

“But why?” he asked. “You said it yourself, Toronto is dangerous. We shouldn’t be confiding in them.”

“I was never loyal to the Knights,” Naz practically spat, dragging his steel-toed boot through the carpet. “I’m a sleeper agent Mitchy. I was put here and now we’re moving out. The Knights have outlived their usefulness.”

Every conversation Mitchd ever had with Naz played cinematically before him, combing through for details about his personal life or whereabouts that could be used against him. The amount of information transferred between Naz and an identified source was piling up against him, a witness testimony to his sins.

“Why are you telling me this?” Mitch said, flatly. Strumming underneath his voice was a tense string, winding itself around his throat, pressing in.

To make matters worse, Naz’s facial expression morphed into a predatorial display, teeth practically curving into long winded fangs when in reality he was just smiling shyly, like he’d told a secret he’d promised not to tell. The anxiety was disillusioning Mitch.

“Why do you think, dummy? I want you to come with me. You were going to be demoted here anyways, so hey, why not? Toronto would be good for you.” Naz walked towards the window, opening his arms up like he was about to be preaching the rapture. “There’s so many people like you and you’d be well treated. We need people with your devotion.”

“Give me a break,” Mitch said. “Devoted? Are you even listening to yourself? I’m pulling away, I’m weak. I don’t want this anymore. I told you this not even five months ago. How do I come across as devoted?”

“Some people may have put a word in for you.” Naz said, drumming his fingers up against the side of the table. Mitch blanched.

“You didn’t.”

“Not just me. Do you think you’re the only one with friends on the other side? When all this is said and done and London is ours you’ll be the catalyst that circumvented a power vacuum here. We’d set you up with a company, for insurance fraud purposes but also because, y’know, a job, and you’d have a nice life. I’m not the only one that thinks this.”

Mitch’s mind helpfully dumped a picture of Auston, and he could practically feel the other man walk into his peripheral with the same snake-like expression he always had. It seemed that any and all complaints fell on deaf ears, for the both of them. He could only be slightly grateful that Auston had stopped pestering him, but this was one step too far.

He backed away, closing in on the door as Naz rose to full attention. “I can’t. I can’t do this anymore Naz.” His hand slid back behind him, palm racing down the door until it tried the door handle. Naz jumped the table, stalking towards him with deadly precision.

“Mitch, don’t. You’re different from the other Knights. We’re going to take London for ourselves; if you come you could take over with me. You and me, we understand each other. I can keep you and your girlfriend safe, give you that family you always wanted. We’d be so powerful.” He sounded in awe, but Mitch was struck cold with terror. Mitch tried the door handle, finding it locked behind him.

Naz growled, “If you leave I have to kill you.” Mitch panicked, eyes scanning the windows, doubled over with yellowing blinds that sucked the life out of the room.

“Kill me?” he laughed. “What kind of friend are you? You make decisions about me, about my life, and expect me to say yes? Just how cruel are you?” He tried the lock against, whining when it didn’t budge a single inch.

“Look, you swore a blood oath, you promised. You’re expected to be held to it. I’m doing this to help you. Do you know what they’re going to do to you when they move in?” He gripped Mitch’s chin, bringing their faces close together, enough so that Mitch could feel the heat of Naz’s panting sink into the skin of his cheeks. “They’re going to hunt down every last member with information and take them out. If you’re not absorbed you’re captured, and if you’re not captured you’re killed. They won’t care that you left. If you come with me you at least have a recommendation that guarantees your survival.”

Mitch shoved him away with one hand, wrapping the other around his throat just to hear his pulse beat.

“N-No. I’ll move away. They won’t find me.”

“They will. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re smart, I know you’re smart. We’ve known each other for years now. You don’t have to leave London forever. Matthews promised that you and I could--”

“Matthews?” Mitch interjected. “You’re speaking with Matthews.” Naz sighed, as if Mitch had hit a sore spot.

“Yes, I am. As I was saying-”

“No! What the fuck! If you think I’m staying, you’re wrong!” He pushed against at Naz, enough to dislodge him and send him backpedaling, and that’s when Mitch moved. He kicked for good measure, sending Naz sprawling out on the floor, jumped the table in the middle of the room and made a dash down the long-winding room’s body to find an exit. Boxes were stacked up against almost every windows, the ones left uncovered shielded with bracketing blinds that shed mold whenever they were touched.

Eventually, he found a backdoor, one that wasn’t supposed to be used. Naz was right on his heels, probably cocking his gun, so Mitch threw open the door, nearly off its hinges, and leaped through the dark, metal endoskeleton. The area had wallpaper peeling off from where the walls met the ceiling, dust particles cloaking every centimetre of air swirling about. The tile was replaced with more carpet, the colour of red velvet, and the odor of bleach was overwhelming enough to nearly make Mitch pass out.

He ran at top speed towards the back entrance’s steel doors, the exit sign above a god-send to his fast-beating heart. His legs were protesting the cruel expectation of movement, but his will to survive made the strain a matter of background noise. His breath as tumbling out, unrestrained, lungs pumping it quicker than his nostrils could keep up. The back of his mouth turned as the oncoming doors grew closer.

“Someone stop him! Chucky!” Naz cried from behind him, voice run ragged from the fight. Mitch was propelling himself forward at such a fast pace that he was unable to pull the brakes when two men slinked out from the shadows, one with a cigarettes pinched between his teeth, which he spit onto the ground. They leaped at him, and in an effort to duck and slide underneath them, Mitch’s ankle twisted painfully.

He slid across the carpet, what felt like static busting around him as his feet shrieked bloody nonsense his treatment of them. The momentum kept him moving a few feet, but he ultimately changed course to avoid the now three pursuers trying to hook their fingers into his hood and choke him blind.

Glass could be heard smashed behind him, something heavy hitting the ground. It was deafening, not because of the sound itself, but because at that given moment Mitch’s ankle gave out and sent him tumbling down. His hands reached out to break his fall, the friction produced between them and the carpet hot enough to burn him through the skin.

Something blunt hit him in the back of the head. For a second it felt like his skull was hollow, that it held nothing and shook his entire body. Like a tsunami the feeling resonated down to his bones, his organs, until a white hot pain overtook him and he lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing too heavy in this chapter. Mitch is half-asleep when he's fingered but everything is consensual. He is later knocked unconscious with a fire extinguisher and consequently kidnapped. Ask if you need anything additional tagged and I will comply.


	7. May 2, 2026

**May 2, 2026**

Marty, as it turned out, was one of the best things ever to happen to Mitch.

The quiet bodyguard who’d stuck to his assignment with little complaint turned out to be a pretty stellar guy. Even better than using Marty’s frame to shield himself from gunfire was making him carry four bags of groceries for a dinner he wouldn’t even eat. Without a vehicle it would be pretty daunting carrying bagged milk home, even with a reusable bag to distribute the weight, so the extra help was appreciated. So was the company. He liked having friends to text in his downtime.

It was one of many more chores he’d taken on in Auston’s absence during the day. Being outside, especially in mid-spring, was lovely. He’d been able to see the cherry blossom trees when they’d bloomed downtown, and even had a day off to tour the spring festivities with Auston. The chill from up north wasn’t enough to stop Auston from shoving chocolate on a stick in his face while laughing. It was remarkably uncivilized, and that’s probably why it was so funny to Mitch, even as he was choking on his own marshmallow.

Things were finally looking up, one day at a time. He’d gradually resumed having a normal life, working around the days when Auston was out on business and welcoming him back as he expected by falling into bed together. Little things adapted to meet the new circumstances, such as how he could finally carry around knives without Auston watching him like an overprotective mother hen, which made cooking a lot easier.

So yeah, maybe he was a glorified trophy wife, but he honestly couldn’t say he hated it. Auston treated him well, with respect, and they turned heads when they walked down the street. Why rising business executive Auston Matthews would concern himself with some impoverished lackey was beyond the reasoning of those in the know, but those willing to accept the excuse of true love ended up being partially correct.

That Thursday night ended like it always did, with Mitch straddling Auston by the waist, exchanging lazy kisses by the fireplace. It was finally warm enough to go outside without bulky coats, and they had watched the lake in the distance for a while until it no longer entertained them. They were running on low fumes, only kept conscious by the gravitational pull keeping their lips mashed together.

“I remember when I first saw you,” Auston panted out, nose brushing with Mitch’s. “You were the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. You didn’t look like you should be out on the streets. You looked like you deserved this.” He let his arms fall back against the couch, as if to gesture at the high-end furniture populating the crevices of the room.

Mitch huffed out a protesting sigh at being denied any more kisses and turned around so that his back was level with Auston’s stomach. Automatically, Auston’s hands dropped so that they could fit around his waist.

“I wanted you to call on me. I wanted you to ask for protection. I felt good knowing you were safe,” Auston murmured against his neck, breath hot. Mitch could feel the hair on the end of his neck stand, back strumming out like a bow in response to the overstimulation.

“I bet you say that to all the boys you bring home,” Mitch said with a laugh. He was trying to focus on the muted programming playing on the flatscreen but Auston was gnawing into his neck like a rabid animal, which was pretty distracting.

“You’re the only one,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mitch waved him off, kicking Auston with his heel when the bites got too rough, even for him. It did little to sway Auston’s determination, and, if anything, made his grip tighten on Mitch’s side, triggering a twitch of the hips.

“I mean it. You’re the only one, ever.” Mitch turned his head to the side, unexpectedly bringing Auston with him as he bit higher into his neck. His adrenaline spiked, reading the action as a threat because of how close it was in trajectory to his carotid.

Mitch froze, mouth half-open, as he waited for Auston to finish licking the wound he made. It wasn’t uncommon for the bites to get a little ravenous after time spent apart, but this was bordering on ridiculous. With his best interests at heart, Mitch let the two of them separate, bringing one hand up to massage his neck.

“Is that so?” he humoured Auston, fingers pressing down on the spot where he could feel the nip bearing into his skin. The imprint of his boyfriend’s canines had sculpted the skin until it pinched, the colour already darkening to a sanguine red and eventual plum. Later, he might press into the mould, just to torment the sensitive patch more. It was fun.

“Mhm. It was you, always you.” Auston cemented his promise with a closed-mouth kiss to Mitch’s lips. “Which, speaking of which, I had something to ask.”

Mitch felt himself being lifted up and off, moved to the other couch cushion. Mitch unfurled his knees from beneath him, directing his attention to Auston in its entirety. The smouldering heat building in the base of his neck would have to wait.

“Yeah?” he said.

“How would you feel about going to university? Like, actual university. Here in Toronto.” Mitch sputtered out a laugh, caught off guard by the question. All the while, Auston patiently watched Mitch get his string of giggles out with a timid smile on his own face. When Auston didn’t return the gesture Mitch felt compelled to quiet himself, watching the transition with apt interest.

“Wait, you’re serious?” he asked, face morphing in disbelief, distinctive dimples giving way to knitted eyebrows and scrunched eyes. Auston nodded, slotting their hands together and tapping his fingernails against Mitch’s until they clicked.

“I am. Maybe not an accounting or commerce student like me, but something nice on the side? Marty thought you be good with the public, so I was thinking public relations. You could work with me then, and still spend some time at home instead of being cooped up at the office all day.”

Teeth pressed together inside of his mouth, the first inkling of worry itched itself into Mitch’s expression. He expected this to be some cruel joke, a taunt regarding something unattainable in the outside world. Mitch had always known he wasn’t cut out for high school let alone university, and it was stupid to think he could accomplish anything like that without a high school diploma.

Auston took his silence for intrigue and continued, “You could carpool over with some of our men and study with me at home. You could even do an internship with the company. I have my contacts, it’s no trouble.”

Mitch, overwhelmed and eyes wet, held his face in his hands, waiting to wake up. It made no change to the dark scenery, nor the unfiltered look painting Auston’s face a rosy hue.

He couldn’t think of anything else to do but hug his lover, putting all his weight forward until Auston collapsed back with Mitch still on top of him. Amidst their engagement, a few items on the coffee table were moved or pushed off by Auston’s flailing arms, but Mitch suppressed those worries with kisses of his own, the best way he’d learned to say thank you.

“You would do that for me?” he said into the skin of Auston’s neck, after thoroughly peppering his face with decorative little pecks. He felt Auston hum an affirmative noise, hands stroking up and down Mitch’s back in an effort to comfort him.

“As I said, I would do anything for you. There’s just one, tiny small thing you’ll have to do for me in return. A swap.” Mitch pulled up, elbows resting on the surface of the couch to suspend him just above Auston. Beneath their groins they were one body, but above were pulled back by invisible strings keeping their lips close enough to feel the gust of their exhales but not brush.

“What do you want? I have no money, I love you, I haven’t tried to run.” He named a laundry list of items he imagined Auston would want to compensate an expensive education that by all accounts would be impossible without the criminal uplink.

Auston’s hands scratched the base of Mitch’s neck, then mapped out the wide expanse of his shoulders, digging into where the blades jutting out met the outward skeleton of his spine. He pressed down just enough to concern Mitch.

“What I want is much simpler, but you won’t like it,” Auston replied, filling Mitch to the brim with trepidation. He waited for Auston to finish his thought. When Auston saw he had Mitch’s attention he dug his nails into Mitch’s left shoulder and curled inwards until the tenderness of the action was overwrought with a fresh tinge of pain.

“I want you to get rid of this,” Auston said, through clenched teeth.

“Wait, get rid of what?” He had no idea what Auston was referring to, but the fresh sense of anger washing over his lover made the thought of sex flee his mind and run screaming in the opposite direction. He tried to look over his shoulder, but Auston used his other hand to guide his chin back so that their eyes were interlocked again.

“Your Knights tattoo. From London. I can’t have you out in public wearing it.”

Mitch released the stale breath he was holding, relaxing into Auston’s arms and flattening himself to his chest. It released the tonne of pressure he’d been putting on his elbows to stay upright.

“Is that it? Yeah, sure, I’ll get it off. It’ll hurt like a bitch though,” he said, mourning the pain that would come. It was a small sacrifice, and in all honesty, probably for the best. He didn’t want a reminder of that chapter of his life anymore, not when he’d finally put it all behind him.

“You didn’t let me finish. I want you to get another tattoo to replace it. One to pledge your allegiance to the Leafs.” Mitch’s gut cried out as his lungs deflated instantly, the pressure nearly making him collapse. “One for me, for _us_.”

“Y--You’re making me get another one?” He couldn’t imagine putting himself through the torture of watching another tattoo brand itself into his skin, tying him into another organization he wasn’t prepared to pledge allegiance to.

Auston looked rightfully smug, tapping his finger against Mitch’s leg. “Yeah. It would be a small act of loyalty. It’d make me feel better,” he said.

“Wouldn’t it just make me an obvious target?” Mitch said, hoping it would sway Auston’s opinion. He couldn’t imagine anything more incriminating than a Leafs tattoo in the city of Toronto.

“It won’t be in the line of sight. Just something nice. Please, for me?” Auston had the audacity to bat his eyelashes like a damsel in distress.

Mitch rolled his eyes, trying to brush off the sheet of discomfort blanketing him.

“I don’t know,” he said, throat scratchy. There was something under his skin, dragging its teeth against the underside of his veins. It made everything from his neck up clammy. He felt like he was sweating his eyeballs out, the sheer weight of Auston’s expectations like some twisted form of acupuncture.

“Come on baby. For me,” Auston pleaded.

Teeth grinding into the plushness of his lip, Mitch looked up, waiting to see if Auston would back down. It was like looking at a brick wall. Any hope flaring in his chest was extinguished then. It was inevitable. Saying no would just delay the decision.

“Okay,” Mitch said. “Okay.”

Auston let out a trill, the happiest noise Mitch had ever seen him make. It was the only warning of the hug that followed, Auston sitting them both upright and pressing Mitch deep into his neck, holding him there. The hands that kept him down were dropping to the small of his back, accompanying a humming noise that Auston was producing from deep inside of his chest. Mitch clung to it, hoping it drowned out the sound of his head screaming.

 

If there was one thing Auston took seriously, it was his branding. Blue, blue, so much _blue_. Mitch blocked most of the day out, heart trapped in his throat as he looked at what the hell was being inked into his skin. There was a high pitch tone wailing in his ear, he could only feel the vibration of Auston talking, approving, what was right in front of them. He heard the artist openly compliment him and heard Auston go along with it instead of shutting her down, and his voice dropped out then and there.

Speaking from an artistic perspective, it was beautiful. Not detailed, just a denim blue with a white detail on top, the colours watery and undefined. He’d seen Leafs tattoos; they were never going to turn heads. Some would go for the full sleeve if they were daring, but it was usually a few maple leaves speckled up and down the arms and occasionally back and neck. Even Auston’s was simplistic, outlined with thick black along the edges which consequently shaded the fluttery patterns. But his? It was almost aristocratic in its design.

Auston had looked at him, waiting for his approval, and all Mitch could do was play along like a mute puppet. The people behind the counter didn’t even acknowledge he was there, addressing him through Auston, poking around his shoulder near the Knights tattoo and relaying their findings back to _Auston_. They called the tatoo things, things which were true, but still bore into Mitch’s skull and drilled themselves in. The hurt mimicked his concussion symptoms.

Mitch had remembered getting the old tattoo. His brother had been the one to recommend it. Instead of going to an actual shop or parlour to get the work done it had been in the basement of one of Chris’ friends, using homemade devices and ingredients Mitch couldn’t even pronounce. It had been a birthday present--was supposed to be, anyway. Those first few months he’d even broke out in rashes that striped up and down his arms, bruising and hot to the touch. He couldn’t sleep on his back without feeling the skin become irritated, red, and blotchy. It wasn’t like they could see a doctor though, so he’d left it as was and continued on living his life.

He’d always thought he would associate getting rid of the Knights tattoo--which was smaller than his palm and very minimal--as a moment of freedom. It would be a release, one he’d thought about for days, months, _years_ even. Instead, he was biting his wrist as Auston pressed a cold towel to his forehead, trying not to throw up on him as his shoulder was ravaged by the shockwaves obliterating the green and gold Knights logo. He’d dangled near the edge a couple of times, but Auston would bring him back, acting as a partial human chair so Mitch could lean into his arms to escape the pain.

It was an excruciating process, made worse by the number of times they’d had to return. The long, drawn-out sessions were taking a bearing on Mitch’s psyche, his resistance crumbling up like an old newspaper. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume Auston was sapping it from him with his lecherous little smiles. He kept stroking Mitch’s back, right after the appointments when the skin would be raw, lamenting Mitch’s hisses and cooing at him from where he sat. He wouldn’t stop though, just keep pressing in, enough to keep Mitch balancing on the precipice of pain as he described in detail just how beautiful he’d look when it was replaced. When it was _his_.

Objectively, Mitch felt he would look ugly with the new tattoo on. The filigree of the leaves was too pretty, the watercolour tinge of the leaves subtle, but a different flavour of colour that could be described as eye candy. You’d never think it was the signature tattoo of a mob, if it weren’t for the initials carved into his collarbone.

The giant fucking **A.M** so shamelessly on display.

If it had been in the mockup, he either wasn’t paying attention and missed it, or Auston had made changes sometime between the artist’s initial renditions and the actual inking, but nonetheless, it was there. It looked back at him in the mirror, when he had to splash his face with water because his sleep schedule was obscured by pain. It was the first thing Auston would touch whenever Mitch stripped his clothes off, a magnet for his hands to knead and for his lips to caress. Mitch found it creepy, but Auston seemed so enamoured with it that Mitch didn’t have the heart to dampen his spirits.

So he endured the discomfort, the sting, the teeter-totter of nausea pulsing through his throat. He returned to the parlour again on Auston’s command and sat knowing exactly what was going to happen, dreading each visit more than the last.

Eventually, the nights got less restless. Food looked more appetizing. He could stretch or place a hand on his shoulder without flinching. The mirror’s reflection stopped looking like a stranger or some creature from the future parsing a warning. It all was a gradual slow burn that, like everything else in the penthouse, never went away until he had lost all emotion to it. Any past affiliations were shed like snake skin.

And when Auston had woke him up one morning, waving around forms that needed to be signed and typing in websites, showing him what he’d be doing, where he’d be going, the classes he’d be experiencing, Mitch would be lying if he said a part of himself didn’t want to forgive him.

 

 

 **December 7, 2024**  
He knew for a fact he was put in some vehicle, but the noises of the choking exhaust were not kept to memory. Wherever he was, it was tight, and the fumes were overwhelming, seeping into his skin until he felt filthy from head to toe. He couldn’t account for the physical sensations; he was numb throughout. Every bad decision he’d ever made was helpfully bestowed before him on a silver platter.

He felt like such an idiot.

He should have known it was a setup, that there were cruel intentions beyond the initial cheer welcoming him to the phone call. Naz was a lot of things: hotheaded, impatient, _stubborn_ , but conniving squeezed its way into his vocabulary one too many times and it seems it had leaked into his personality too. He liked to believe Naz was better than that, and it was that positive inkling in him that likely convinced his head that it would be a good idea to bus down south and try his luck. And look where he ended up. In a trunk, probably. Being shuttled across the city to stand six feet under in the grave he dug himself eight years ago.

Fighting tooth and nail proved to be pointless, he was outnumbered at least three to one. He’d tried to put up a fight, but his head felt like it was being split in two, and they ended up dragging his knees through solid concrete when he wouldn’t cooperate. He screamed; they slapped his face. He shut up soon after. With a blindfold stifling his vision, he had no choice but to follow their lead, down the weaving halls and into a stuffy room with a shutter door of some sort. Every motion rubbed his wrists together where they’d be bound, the friction searing until he was sure it’d cut into the bone.

Fuck it all. Fuck his life. Fuck his parents for not raising them better. Fuck his brother for dragging him into it. Fuck him for not _trying harder._ He was more than capable; could’ve made something of himself. It wouldn’t equate the white picket fence--would’ve looked more like some bleak apartment west of downtown where grass actually grew--but it would be something of substance. He wouldn’t be here, bawling his eyes out, following through as they made him kneel like the martyr he was.

And then came the torturous wait. The agonizing seconds that drawled into what was probably minutes, then hours. The cleaver of death was resting against his jugular, ready to cut, but pulling back at the last minute. He knew he was in no position to make demands but he wished they would just kill him already. Less time to imagine scenarios where they’d probably kick his flea-ridden corpse until the maggots scurried out.

The image alone made him retch.

He was comatose with fear when the door chittered to life again, the mesh loudly clambering to signify a new arrival. Alert, Mitch felt his whole body jerk into stance, blood rushing back into his hands and feet which had long since been devoid of it. The staleness that had left an impression in his skin was stripped off like a band-aid, the walls of his mouth as dry as sandpaper.

Some murmuring occured, but much too low for him to understand. All he could do was keep thinking about Olivia. About not coming home. A sob wretched itself in his throat. Without hands to wipe his face with the most he could do was sniffle. It too, was caught in the ambience of the room, wrung it out until it was a mockery of a noise. Until Mitch was but a pathetic waste of space, still riding on each breath like it would be his last as he stared down the disfigured face of death.

Something was trying to get in and feel up his shirt. It worked its way up from the base of his spine and sparked electrical sensations as it worked tediously to peel the collar back. The cotton stuck to his skin with sweat, the sticker-like quality further eroding any confidence he’d built up. The object, it was a hand he was sure of it, scraped his shoulder blade and in response, he arched to get away. The touch followed him, never giving him a second to suck in oxygen through the gaps of his teeth.

He’d given it his best shot and paid the price. They’d kill him, as Naz threatened. The only question was if they would relish in the opportunity. Would they revel in smashing his shoulders into bone fragments, waterboard him and wring the last few morsels of information dry before discarding him in the back dumpster? Or would they hold a pistol to his head and blow his brains out, without giving him the dignity of a burial?

Someone cleared their throat. It stopped at movement in the room in an instance. You could hear a pin drop. It was worse because he had nothing to hold onto. Any shapes he’d identified evaporated, levitating just out of reach. Spectral was one thing to call it, but a more accurate term was ominous. Ominous because he was here, in the blind eye of the legal system, with strangers stalking around him like hyenas.

The door opened again and God--were more coming in? Was this some elaborate setup, where he was being showboated to strike fear in potential defectors? Face pinched, he sat in place and tried not to wriggle lest he damage his hands more. The blood circulating in his head was making him dizzy already and he couldn’t even see shit.

Maybe the last thing he ever sees would be that goddamn backdoor he’d been running to. The door to freedom, with Naz hot on his heels. It was a mockery of his efforts. He was so close, close enough to push out and escape, and lost it all. It was like he was living the embodiment of a dream: being chased by something and despite running as fast as possible never leaving the range of its sight. Hunted down like prey, pumping your legs until your knees splintered, all the while feeling the floor beneath your feet sink to sand and the grip of your opponent reaching to drag you screaming back into the depths. Except this was _real_. This wasn’t some imaginary scenario conjured up by the dark core of his subconscious, as much as he wished it was. Nothing his nightmares could ever brew could replicate the sensation the first inch of his skin tasted by the palm of the stranger’s hand.

Claws, ugly, sharp, _big_ claws were wrapping around his cheeks, pressing them into his gums and teeth without restraint. He felt his head being lifted, with little empathy put towards his esophagus, straining under the newfound pressure. A noise slithered out from behind his molars, even as his teeth clamped down to stifle its remains.

The hands spread, the fingers like spider legs, spooling webs around his ears that clotted his thoughts. Answering his stuttering exhales was a hot cloud of breath that eradicated any thought process combing through

"Mitchell Marner." The words hung lifeless in the air, but even as they were, words, they felt as lethal as a dosage of arsenic being dripped down the back of his throat. It ate away at his lungs, puncturing holes where there should be reinforcement. For all the damage they did, the words were mundane, the speaker more than courteous to speak slow enough to comprehend through the tidal waves of blood obscuring MItch’s eardrums.

The hands returned, just as sharp and pointed as before. They scratched his temple, plunging through his hair to tighten around his skull and press inwards. It felt like they would crush his brain with the unspoken show of force behind the act.

He was almost reluctant to feel the hands discarding the blindfold, loosening the dark cradling his vision. Without purchase, it slid down the bridge of his nose and fell gracelessly to the cement below.

An entourage of light and sound overcame him instantly, his eyelids shielding the worst but still struggling to let his pupils adjust to the sensational overload. There was a layer of dust in the air, choking him whenever he breathed in and painting his tongue gray with the multitude of particles. He felt poisoned, sucking down the noxious chemicals befitting of wherever he was being held captive.

There was a sliver of doubt wedged in the back of his throat, an invisible string yanking his eyelids up from where they were glued together. The tenor of the voice, the brutal intimacy of the touches; a realization was dawning on Mitch and he did everything he could to shut the blinds and deny the bitterness kissing at his lips. He’d suppressed so many of his memories and left them to rot in the passage of time; now, confronted by them, he was wholly unprepared for the outcome at hand.

Something--Someone he’d worked so had to erase had wormed his way back into Mitch’s field of vision, but the mask of allure was scraped clean from his face. The beady eyes looking down at him were devoid of familiarity and encased in black shells. A brand new scar winded through the corner of his mouth, zig-zagging up, ending at the root of the nostril.

Abandoned at the roost of the enemy, what should’ve scared him was the blood smeared across the discarded furniture in what looked like a storage unit, but it  _didn't_  . His vision was crushed with blacks and whites obnoxious in their colour, burning his retinas the longer they peered up at the devil incarnate. In the attack on his sense of self, he quite nearly destructed at being back in the clutches of Auston Matthews.

He looked angry. Mitch couldn’t blame him--he’d cut off all communication in his attempt at breaching a new life. There was a void of emotion that had overcome him there. He was afraid to even inch an eyebrow up. Auston was so wholly unpredictable, so delusional at times, that anything could happen and he’d be flayed open before he could even object.

Auston deleted the expression when Mitch blinked. He replaced it with a smile, a wholesome, lovely little smile. It was like nothing had ever happened between them. Like what had happened was not a beginning, but a _continuation_.

And the bottom of Mitch’s stomach fell out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this is done, holy cow. Warnings for this chapter include dubious consent about getting a tattoo? Not sure how you would tag that but it's a warning nonetheless. Also, kidnapping and some graphic descriptions of violence. Thank you to everyone who commented and supported me throughout the story. I love all of you and read your comments every day. Bless.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t believe I’ve ever written this much for a single story or universe, so I'm sort of wading in blind. I am in plentiful thanks to gravityinglass and shatteredminds for all the help they’ve given me working up to the story’s release. They’re stuck with me through thick and thin and ultimately been the reason I continued, so I hope I will be able to convey my love with the finished release. It's thanks to them that major errors like throwing fire hydrants and eating gluten-free butter popcorn of all things didn't make it to the final story. The same goes to everyone that commented on the first part; I still read your comments today!


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